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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26876137">Out Tonight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper'>Professional_Creeper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Law &amp; Order: SVU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Awkward Dates, Awkwardness, Dating, Drunk Rafael Barba, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, Enthusiastic but drunk consent, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Guilt, Karaoke, One Night Stands, POV Female Character, Rafael Barba Sings, Rafael Barba Speaking Spanish, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, papi kink, reader is NOT a Detective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:55:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,917</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26876137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You're in Manhattan for a night out of karaoke when you spot a handsome, dark-haired stranger in flamboyant suspenders performing the most heartbreaking rendition of One Song Glory you've ever heard, and convince him to do a duet with you. Things heat up from there. </p><p>The only problem is, you have no idea that he would never be so open and flirtatious if he weren't very, very drunk.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rafael Barba/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Karaoke</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thing about Scotch whisky is, it’s a drink meant to be sipped. A.D.A. Rafael Barba drank a Scotch every day, especially after a difficult case. One or two, mulled upon over the course of an hour. </p><p>At over 40 percent alcohol by volume, the practical difference between Scotch, the gentleman’s drink favored by lawyers and Wall Street executives, and the tequila swigged by rednecks ripping their shirts off at a dive bar is the speed at which the beverages are consumed.</p><p>The thing about being a Scotch drinker is, you’re only ever one <em>particularly</em> bad day and a few extra drams carelessly tipped down the hatch away from getting well and truly shitfaced.</p><p>This would never happen to A.D.A. Barba. He had complete control of himself at all times. In the courtroom. In his manner of dress. In his speech. He won cases other prosecutors wouldn’t dare to take on, because he was meticulous. He was relentless. And he never let his guard down.</p><p>But on this particular day, nothing was going according to plan. All week, in fact, a case he was certain of had been falling apart piece by piece, slipping through his fingers, until today, a man who made Barba’s stomach sicken walked out of the courtroom a free man.</p><p>It was his fault. He got cocky. The victims subjected themselves to retraumatization just to testify on the hope of getting some kind of justice, and it was all for nothing. He let them down. He let the SVU team down. The look on Benson’s face when the foreman delivered the not guilty verdict made Barba want to crawl inside himself.</p><p>So he did what he always did on bad days, and went to his favorite bar alone to sit quietly and numb his sorrows over a glass of Macallan.</p><p>Except it wasn’t fucking quiet. This was supposed to be a subdued, sophisticated establishment that didn’t draw a big crowd. This was <em>his</em> bar! But for some godawful reason, the new manager had decided—unbeknownst to Barba—to try hosting karaoke night.</p><p>
  <em>Karaoke!</em>
</p><p>He scowled at the colored stage lights. Glowered at the rambunctious crowds of young people. Seethed at the bad 80’s music and off-key bellowing. He dropped heavily into his usual seat at the bar and exchanged withering looks with the bartender, who slid him his usual drink without needing to be asked. What the hell was happening to his life? Barba began to wonder whether he had anything under control at all, downing the dram in one shot.</p><p>As he gasped on the fiery liquid burning down his throat, he gained determination. They were not going to take his bar from him. Not a chance. If these tourists and college kids wanted to have their revelry, they would have to do it with a grumpy old killjoy glowering at them. He ordered another round.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>An hour and a steep tab later, and Barba was gripping the microphone with sweaty fingers, belting out One Song Glory at the top of his lungs.</p><p>He rationalized it as “better bend than break,” but the truth was, he had dreamed of becoming an actor before going to law school to please his mother. His inner theater geek was always waiting to slip out whenever he let his guard down, but since that was never, it was side he rarely indulged. Tonight, his head was spinning, and it didn’t seem like a bad idea.</p><p>
  <em>“One song to redeem this empty life. Time flies—and then no need to endure anymore!”</em>
</p><p>The wooden bar stool creaked as his weight sank back down on it, and he ordered another drink to question about his life choices. “Will I ever be remembered for anything besides my failures?” he asked the glass. He’d come this far from the poor barrio where he grew up, but every step was a fight. He couldn’t just be good, he had to be better than the privileged WASPs he was competing against. He had to be the best. Every little mistake, every lost trial, could be the end of all he had worked for.</p><p>Barba was so busy nursing his latest drink, he almost didn’t notice someone else drunkenly belting a track from <em>RENT.</em> Except, as his head swung up to listen, it wasn’t drunken belting at all. A woman with a low-cut blouse and tight jeans that hugged her curves was singing so seductively, staring right at <em>him</em>. She winked and sweetly begged him to take her out tonight.</p><p>No—he was imagining it. He was just drunk, lonely, and pathetic. She was working the crowd, making everyone feel like she was singing just to them. Maybe she was a Broadway performer to have that skill, or at least a master at flirtation. Either way, she was way out of his league. There was no chance she had singled him out.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>So what if you didn’t know anybody, and it was dangerous to go alone? You were in Manhattan on a Friday night—you were going to go out and have a good time, dammit!</p><p>The promise of karaoke drew you into a small but packed bar, and you were a few drinks in when you heard a voice like an angel and a rock-star had a baby singing a song from your favorite musical ever. The voice belonged to a singer wearing old-man suspenders, a pink tie, and a light coating of stubble from not having shaved since morning. He was fashionable, you guessed. Dapper. But it was that expressive voice that mesmerized you. As he sang, your gut was wrenched with the emotional pain woven through each note.</p><p>You were smitten. You tried to go talk to him, but the moment the song was over he vanished into the tightly-packed crowd. It was silly. It was far too bold to approach a stranger in the big city, but the warm tipsy feeling in your gut gave you confidence to hatch a plan.</p><p>Step one: Locate him from the stage.</p><p>Step two: Impress him.</p><p>Step three: Bond over mutual love for <em>RENT</em>.</p><p>Step four, if you managed to get that far, was a bunch of squiggly question marks and “kiss his face?” hastily scrawled in pencil. It was a long shot, you knew that. You were way too shy, and he was far too handsome not to have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or a husband. Frankly, even if he were single, he was way out of your league. But still, the nebulous step four could simply be “Have a fun night with your new karaoke buddy,” and that possibility alone made you feel like glitter was exploding inside of you.</p><p>When it was your turn to sing, you found him from your elevated vantage—he was sitting far from the stage, at the end of the bar—and tried to catch his eye. You’d been using Out Tonight as your karaoke icebreaker for years, so you’d gotten good at playing up the sexiness, tossing your hair and biting your lip. Your clumsy ass had even picked up a few dance moves to spice it up, and you gave them your booty-shaking all when you saw him look up at you.</p><p>You were glad you’d worn the jeans that made your butt look fantastic, and your sexiest, strappiest sandals (which were actually Tevas with a two-inch wedge heel, purchased from an outdoor gear store). He was watching you with fascination as you pouted the lyric, <em>“don’t forsake me,”</em> at him.</p><p>It sent a shiver down your spine to think he might really be looking at you that way.</p><p>The moment you got off the stage, you were bombarded by guys offering to buy you a drink, asking for your number. It was discouraging that Sexy Suspenders was not among them. Apparently your sexy routine worked, but entirely missed its intended target. Then again, a man like that probably let women come to him.</p><p>Ducking and weaving past your suitors like they were physical obstacles and not people, you reached Suspenders. The bar stool next to him was open, held by a briefcase and folded suit jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his hair was a little mussed. He appeared to be deep in conversation with his empty glass. You took a step forward to approach him, but an anxious constriction in your chest froze you in place.</p><p>Who do you think you are?! A gorgeous, sharp-dressed city guy will never even give you the time of day! Your mother’s nagging voice chimed in to warn you not to talk to strange men in bars when you’re out alone, in New York City, no less. You grimaced at your awesome double-dose of anxiety. He would either laugh in your face, or you were about to get murdered. Hooray!</p><p>But there was a loneliness in his demeanor that encouraged you he wouldn’t laugh, and up close, you noticed he was so short you could probably pick him up like a little baby chipmunk if things got out of hand. Ignoring how thick his forearms were, of course. But if he crushed you with those, you would die happy.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next singer on stage had started screeching a rendition of Don’t Stop Believin’ with ten drunk buddies, and Barba was squeezing his eyes closed to try to drown them out, so he was caught completely unaware when a tap on his shoulder startled him.</p><p>“Is this seat taken?”</p><p>His vision blurred. He had to rub his eyes and look twice to be sure he was seeing who he thought he was seeing. “Mimi!” he blurted. “From the—nice, um—no. No one’s sitting here.”</p><p>He moved his belongings to the top of the bar, and you sat on the vacated stool, quite pleased with yourself. The bartender immediately handed you a pink icy cocktail with a slice of lime, and pointed his thumb to someone at the other end of the bar who paid for it. Barba followed his gesture to a very cute guy in his twenties and felt a twinge of double-edged jealousy that the most beautiful woman he had ever seen was most likely about to get up and leave him, and that the drink hadn’t been for <em>him</em>, because frankly, he couldn’t blame you. You did get up, but only to crane your neck to find your benefactor. When you did, you gave the world’s dorkiest thumbs up, while conspicuously putting your hand on Barba’s shoulder.</p><p>Barba’s lips spread into a smug bastard what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it smirk as he stared down his attractive rival. His head cocked to the side pleasantly. The other man’s flirtatious gaze fell into an annoyed tick. You sighed with relief as he moved away.</p><p>Turning back to Barba, you realized your hand was still on his shoulder and quickly removed it. You inhaled and said, “I heard you singing you were amazing do you want to do a duet together? Can we? I love <em>RENT!</em> I’ve always wanted to do Light My Candle—can we do it together?” in one breath.</p><p>Your flurried gush of words nearly knocked him off his stool—he put his hands up defensively and sat wide-eyed, nodding slowly as you went full babbling-nerd on him. You may not have been as suave as he initially thought, and oddly enough, he was okay with that. It was disarming, and your enthusiasm was infectious.</p><p>Because his instinct to distance himself from anyone he might risk forming a real emotional connection with wasn’t working at the moment, he grabbed you by the shoulders, locked his piercing eyes with yours, and emphatically answered, “Yes. We must!”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Having a karaoke partner is essential for Broadway musical numbers, as most of them are duets—two or more characters interacting with each other as the plot of the show advances. Light My Candle was one of your favorite songs, and snagging the mysterious suspendered singer meant you could finally perform it outside your shower.</p><p>It was a bouncy back-and-forth duet that was fun to sing, but you forgot how aggressively flirtatious it was until you had to ask him—you hadn’t even asked his name yet—if you had the best ass below 14th street, and about wax dripping between your… um, fingers. But the way he looked at you made seducing him so natural. You just had no idea if it was part of the performance, or if it was real.</p><p>When the song was over, you bounced on your toes, clinging to his arm for balance as you tripped on the stairs down from the stage, squealing, “That was so much fun!” He put his hand around your waist to steady you. It felt like it was made to be there.</p><p>His face was flushed red and his eyes sparkled with exhilaration, and he quickly agreed to another duet, though he muttered, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his brow, “Thank god no one from the precinct is here.”</p><p>Performing together with a partner always makes you feel a connection—even if it’s just drunken karaoke. When you sang one part of a harmony and he picked up the other part, your voices became two halves of a whole. And with musicals, it’s as much about acting as it is singing. He threw so much emotional intensity into the lyrics, which gave you something to respond to, throwing it back at him in fluid conversation as your voice soared above his and dove beneath it again.</p><p>You hadn’t had this much fun in a long time, and you had a feeling he hadn’t, either.</p><p>Not that you had any way of knowing, really. You guessed it by the ease in which he embodied Roger’s stubborn refusal to open his heart, by the mournful way he lifted his drinks to his lips like he was toasting at a funeral. His expensive leather briefcase and formal attire, too, suggested a well-paid but dreadfully boring line of work, like a financial manager.</p><p>Your guess was dead-on, in truth. Barba was vigilant against dating anyone he met professionally. Even if there had been a secretary or paralegal or two he’d had chemistry with, for the sake of his career, he could not afford to conduct himself in a manner that could raise even the hint of a scandal or ethical conflict in the workplace. And anyone he met outside of the workplace… well, he didn’t. His entire life revolved around his job.</p><p>The bartender had just brought a fresh round of drinks, and your head rested on your fist, elbow on the bar. Barba was staring deeply into your soul with those pretty green eyes, trying to figure out how he managed to get you and how he could keep you.</p><p>“We should do Another Day next,” you grinned.</p><p><em>“Who do you think you are, barging in on me and my guitar!”</em> He sang in a gritty rock voice, poking at your chest accusingly while holding an air microphone with the other. You forgot to be surreptitious and blatantly checked for a wedding ring.</p><p>After Roger’s verse, you sang back Mimi’s part, seductively leaning in closer to him. <em>“There’s only us. There’s only this...”</em> As you leaned closer, his eyelids drooped, and his eyes darkened. <em>“Forget regret, or life is yours to miss.”</em> The smoky smooth molasses of Scotch was strong on his breath. He studied your face hazily, his eyes drawn down to the movement of your lips. There was no mistaking his attraction for a performance now. You sang softer and softer until your forehead was resting against his, your lips almost touching. Then you just breathed.</p><p>“No day but today,” he mulled the lyric and the impulsive circumstances that had led him to being with you in that moment. “I should follow that advice more often.”</p><p>“That’s what I’m trying to do,” you murmured. “Here I am in the city, having fun,” your voice slowed to a crawl as your eyes flicked up and down his face, “...with a perfect, handsome stranger...”</p><p>His tongue ran over his lower lip again as his eyes dropped to your mouth and clouded over with some sultry thought.</p><p>You’re not sure which one of you moved first, but in the next moment his lips were melting into yours, desperate and passionate. That tempting tongue of his ran along your lower lip now, sliding easily inside as your mouth parted to invite him within, swirling in heated wet circles around yours. It was heavy with the taste of Scotch and the faint bitterness of coffee, as if that were all he’d eaten that day. You curled your fingers into his hair and deepened the kiss, moaning into his mouth, and his broad arms closed around your back and pulled you off your bar stool onto his lap.</p><p>His skin was burning hot, and waves of heat coursed up through your body like you were both on fire. Your pulse thundered in your ears until it drowned out the off-key music, and each pounding heartbeat sent a corresponding throb to your cunt. Your eyes closed. All that existed was the messy clashing of your teeth and tongues, the woody-sweet scent of his cologne filling your lungs, the heat of his strong hands on your back, and the bulge of his cock twitching beneath you.</p><p>When you finally had to come up for air, and hopped back onto your own bar stool, suddenly self-conscious of how pornographic that nearly was, all he had to say was, “I’ve never done that before.”</p><p>You blinked. “You’ve never… kissed someone?”</p><p>“Not someone I just met <em>in a bar!</em>” his eyebrows shot up and he sounded so utterly scandalized, your euphoric high from kissing him came crashing down. He saw you as some kind of cheap tramp for kissing him. Pretentious asshole. Suddenly you felt like shit.</p><p>You turned your attention to the second round of that fruity cocktail that random guy paid for. It turned out to be a pretty tasty drink, so you ordered another. Maybe you should have given that guy a chance.</p><p>“So, are you here by yourself?” Barba asked your profile, not bothering to hide the patronizing concern in his tone.</p><p>“Yeah,” you said without looking up.</p><p>“Jesus. I thought so. That’s really dangerous, you know.”</p><p>“Ugh,” you groaned and pivoted away from him further, leaving him confused. So first he implied you’re a slut, and now he was pulling the whole, <em>the city is full of predators, but I’m a Nice Guy—let me walk you home</em> routine. This is what you get for picking a guy based on how good he sings.</p><p>“I did not mean to imply that. I only meant that I’m usually more... careful.” Oh. You must have said all of that out loud. Oops. “But you’re right to be suspicious of my intentions. There are… all kinds”— he breathed the word out in a jaded huff—“of tactics predators will use. Manipulations, brute force, drugs, fake personas… And all they have to do is claim consent and half the time the jury believes it even if the physical evidence is horrifying.” He was getting visibly angry thinking about it, his drink dangerously close to spilling as he clenched his fist around it.</p><p>You stared at him. “Um.”</p><p>“Oh,” he cleared his throat, “I’m an A.D.A. for Manhattan. Prosecutor. I’m a lawyer,” he clarified when the acronym earned no look of recognition in your eyes. “Lately I’ve been working with the Special Victims Unit, so when I see someone drinking alone late at night, talking to complete strangers,” he gestured at himself. “You have no idea how many sexual assault cases start with this exact scenario.”</p><p>“Big-shot lawyer, huh? Sure, now pull the other one.”</p><p><em>“What?”</em> His head cocked at you in utter bewilderment.</p><p>“Pull the other… leg. You’re pulling my leg?”</p><p>“I know what it means, I’ve just never heard it said by anyone under sixty. Are you secretly an old man?”</p><p>Your cheeks burned. “<em>You’re</em> an old man,” you retorted childishly.</p><p>His lips folded in on themselves as he tried to keep a straight face. “I don’t know. What can you tell me about the Model T?”</p><p>You took a grumpy swig of the fruity strawberry cocktail.</p><p>“What was World War II like?”</p><p>“So are you really a lawyer, or do you just use that line to pick up chicks?”</p><p>“I am, I am!” he laughed. “I can prove it. Let’s see...” he pulled out his phone, brought up a search result for his name, and scrolled through headlines. “DA’s Office Helps NYPD Persecute Immigrant Families,” “Justice at Last for Serial Rapist Victims,” and others rolled across the screen. He narrowed his eyes as his index finger hovered over each one. “Oh, sounds like I’m an idiot in this one,” his mouth twitched into a sardonic smirk, “and I’m a real asshole here… Oh, look, here’s one where I’m the big hero.” He held out his phone so you could see the photo of him in another flashy suit and bold tie, speaking to crowd of reporters in front of the courtroom steps. He looked so sexy in his full three piece suit, and much more severe, his face hard and intelligent. The caption below it praised his victory putting away a notorious rapist, and identified him A.D.A. Rafael Barba.</p><p>“Wow. That <em>is</em> you. Who knew I was doing karaoke with such an important guy?” You slung your arm around his shoulders, which were irresponsibly broad and solid. God, being with him felt so right. Casual touches were so comfortable even though you’d just met, and the way he responded, melting under you, sent a wave of heat through your lower back.</p><p>He kept flipping through headlines, his brow quirking a little at one, eyes narrowing at the next. Then he saw one that made him stop scrolling. He put the phone down on the bar and scrubbed his hand over his face and hair, blinking back tears suddenly forming. You caught the glowing screen before it automatically locked. The headline was from today. “Local Teacher Found Not Guilty—.”</p><p>His head dropped into his arms on the bar. “It was my fault. If I had done something different, been more prepared...” A sad groan emitted from the Barba puddle.</p><p>“I’m sure you did everything you could,” you soothed, and rubbed his back sympathetically. “So one guy got acquitted. It happens every day.”</p><p>“I <em>know,</em>” he growled. This fact was the opposite of comforting.</p><p>“You’re sure he was guilty?”</p><p>“He did it. To at least a dozen kids over the last two decades, but no one wanted to testify, or the statute of limitations was up, and then our key witness… There must have been something I could have done, something I didn’t think of. I let him get away with it.” His shoulders heaved as he sobbed into his arms. “I fucked up.”</p><p>You kept rubbing circles over his back, whispering soothing words to him. You leaned down and peppered his head with soft kisses. He shifted off the top of the bar and began crying into your chest, his arms wrapping around you like a baby lemur. You held him tight, suddenly understanding that this was the memory he came here to drown. This was why all night you had caught him looking wistful every time the conversation lulled. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. “It’s alright. Shh.”</p><p>His arms tightened around your waist, then relaxed, tension melting from his body. “This is nice,” he sighed into your shirt, enjoying being snugly pressed against you, surrounded by warmth. “Thank you… this is nice.” He never let anyone comfort him like this. Never let his need for comfort show under his stoic exterior. If his judgment were functioning properly, it would have struck him as a red flag how easily he sought comfort from a stranger that he wouldn’t have accepted from his closest friends, but it felt good to let it out.</p><p>Eventually, he remembered his dignity and sat up, drying his eyes on his sleeve and glancing regretfully at the wet splotch he’d made in your shirt.</p><p>“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. He picked up his latest glass of scotch, and swirled its half-empty amber contents before setting it down again. It was possible he had drunk enough.</p><p>“It’s OK. You had a bad day.”</p><p>His lips tightened at the corners in agreement. “Usually Liv is the only one who tries to cheer me up. So, thanks for…” He closed his eyes and tilted his head. “You’re very nice.”</p><p>Your chest fluttered. He was terribly cute, and far too vulnerable for you to be having these lascivious feelings about him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Spanish Lessons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Barba teaches you some dirty Spanish, and you learn how much it turns him on when you call him papi.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning: Dub-con!! Everyone is enthusiastically willing, but also super drunk.</p><p>(Lo siento por mi español. Hay mucho español en este capitulo XD Por favor dime si cometí algún error!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So… <em>Rafael Barba,</em>” you changed the subject away from today’s trial. His failure to get a conviction had sent him into such a steep emotional spiral he cried in your arms at the bar, despite having just met you an hour ago. “That’s Spanish, right?”</p><p>The vulnerability in his eyes flattened. “Cuban,” he said, already bracing for the “but you don’t look Latino” comments, or worse, something about rafts or cigars. Instead your eyes got wide like he just ripped off a mask and revealed himself to be David Bowie.</p><p>“Cool!”</p><p>“I… guess?” There were eighty thousand Cuban-Americans living in New York, but sure.</p><p>“Hablar… I mean, hablas español?”</p><p>“Sí, lo hablo,” he answered with wry amusement, pinching the bridge of his nose.</p><p>You chewed your lip in thought before slowly saying, “Aprendí un poco de español en la escuela, y lo me gusta mucho.”</p><p>His brow raised. You actually knew more than he expected, which is to say, you could string more than two words together. “Not bad. Toda mi familia es de Cuba, así que el español es mi lengua materna. Soy el primer estadounidense.”</p><p>He spoke faster, at a natural pace, expecting you to follow, but when your eyes glazed over and you awkwardly squeaked out, “...Qué?” it became clear you did not, in fact, speak Spanish.</p><p>“Let’s stick to English,” he grimaced.</p><p>You whined in disappointment. “But that was so hot! Please? Un poco más. Dime algo en español!”</p><p>“Algo.”</p><p>An unflattering snort erupted from your nostrils, and you started giggling like a manic school girl. Barba shook his head with second-hand embarrassment, though a smile crept over his lips as you continued struggling to contain yourself, pleased at how well his bad joke had gone over.</p><p>“Come on, teach me something,” you pouted, leaning towards him, pushing your chest out. “Por favor… papi?”</p><p>He choked on his drink so hard burning whisky shot up his nose. “Ay, dios!” He pounded his chest and ordered a water. “OK, OK, bueno,” he put up his hands in defeat. “Hablaré en español. Solo para ti, <em>mamita.</em> Te gusta?”</p><p>“Mucho, <em>papi.</em>” You were taking advantage of calling him that now that you’d seen his reaction. He didn’t <em>nearly die</em> this time, but a red blush was sweeping up his neck under his shirt collar. Emboldened, he leaned toward you, eyes heavily lidded as he flirtatiously held your gaze.</p><p>“Tienes novio?”</p><p>“A husband? Do I look married?” you flipped your ringless left hand back and front and worried about your age.</p><p>He laughed, raising a hand to his forehead with his palm shading his eyes. “That would be <em>esposo.</em>”</p><p>“Oh. Right.” Your face darkened. “No, yo soy… single.”</p><p>“Estás soltera,” he prompted.</p><p>“Ah, gracias. Estoy <em>soltera.</em> Y tú?” you tilted your face down shyly and looked up at him through your lashes. “Tienes esposo? O novia?”</p><p>“Nope,” he popped the p, staring into the empty bottom of his scotch glass and wishing he hadn’t decided to cut himself off. The sip of water he took was boring and not numbly soothing at all. He had been single for a depressingly long time, in fact.</p><p>“Muy bien,” you smiled with delight, and he suddenly realized his years of failure at relationships were, tonight, a positive. It was the answer a very beautiful woman was hoping for. He may have been suffering from a string of humiliating losses, but winning you over reawakened his cocky self-assurance.</p><p>“Acércate.” He curled his finger to beckon you closer, and you swung onto his lap. God, you were so close. Your body fit so perfectly in his arms and you smelled like strawberry lemonade from that cocktail. Before he could help it, he was kissing you again. Softer and a little less desperate this time. A little more… something else. He just met you, but the way you made him feel cared about was stronger than he had ever felt, depressing as that was to admit. The one time he had put his whole heart into a relationship, he’d had it shattered so badly he was still picking up the pieces. Since then, he chose relationships that were mutually guarded, partners he knew he would never connect with, and who didn’t expect anything back. Barba did not open up to people. He’d never let himself cry on anyone before, except his abuelita. He must have been extremely drunk to let his guard down so much, but he pushed the realization out of mind as your fingers curled through his hair around the back of his head and pulled him deeper, your strawberry tongue slipping between his bitter lips. He wanted this. He needed it. He felt so close to you, so right—that was all that mattered.</p><p>He started whispering to you in Spanish between kisses, phrases you couldn’t understand, some that you got the gist of. He cringed a little at your attempts to reply in his first language, but kissed you more softly each time. You were trying, at least. You were trying very hard to understand a piece of him. The phrases he murmured against your lips grew progressively more filthy, which your keen ears picked up on even if you weren’t entirely sure what they meant.</p><p>“Como se dice, ‘fuck me harder’?” you asked in a low voice full of lust, fingers tightening against his scalp.</p><p>“...damelo más duro,” he said with a shudder. His cock twitched and he wondered if you’d noticed the growing erection pressed against your thigh as you sat in his lap. What you would think. But you must have noticed, and you weren’t moving to get away from him.</p><p>“Damelo duro, papi,” you purred, leaning to say it into his ear, your breath warm and tickling.</p><p>He swallowed, heart hammering in his chest. Barba, always so eloquent under pressure in court, could barely form words to express a coherent thought. You were just joking. You must have been. To you it was a foreign language, and it didn’t sound like a real request to your ears. This was just a flirty game, teaching you naughty Spanish. “Y-you are… getting into dangerous territory here,” he tried to laugh jokingly, but his throat was dry. He swallowed again.</p><p>You lowered your voice and your eyelids. “I mean it,” you whispered against the shell of his ear. To punctuate your point, you rolled your hips, deliberately grinding your inner thigh against his forming erection. He was so wildly aroused with alcohol he thought he would come right there, but its effects were also preventing him from getting completely hard yet, something he should probably have been concerned about, but wasn’t.</p><p>“Would you like to go somewhere?” he said, voice strained with urgency. “I would very much like to go somewhere <em>immediately</em> and fuck your brains out, please. If that’s… alright with you.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The streets of Midtown were as bright and crowded as they were during the day, just a little less hurried—except for two people. You held Barba’s large hand, long elegant fingers laced with yours, laughing giddily in the warm summer air as you raced toward your hotel, stopping only to desperately kiss each other, fingers in each other’s hair, reigniting the flames that pulled you together.</p><p>Barba broke away panting, his lips wet with your saliva. The fresh air had a sobering effect, and something serious occurred to him. He had been animated and outgoing all night at the bar, but he suddenly very much resembled the shrewd lawyer whose picture you had seen in a news article. You felt like you’d been called to the principal’s office under the severity of his gaze, waiting for whatever it was he had to say.</p><p>“Did you take any pictures of us together?”</p><p>“I… might have taken a few selfies,” you admitted, terrified you’d committed a heinous faux pas.</p><p>“Good,” he said. “Do you have location data enabled? You should send those to someone you trust, along with the time you left the bar, and where we’re going.”</p><p>Gears in your head turned slowly to put together an intelligible response. You opened your mouth and declared, <em>“...whuh?”</em></p><p>“You’re out drinking alone, taking a stranger home!” he gripped your shoulders as if to shake you. “Do you know how many cases never get off the ground because there’s no ID, no proof the victim and assailant were ever in the same room? Those photos would establish a timeline and a suspect, and would be enough for a warrant. Do you know what I would give to have evidence like that in every case? A lot more rapists would go to jail.”</p><p>“Are you… saying you’re a rapist?” you said slowly, cocking your head.</p><p>He stiffened, mentally replaying his own words. His eyes darted to the side, up, down, and three other directions in rapid succession. “N-no… But you have no way of knowing that. You’re too trusting. No matter how charming someone seems, it’s better to be paranoid and take precautions.”</p><p>“Uh-huh. Real charming. You know, it’s creepy telling someone that right before you’re going to sleep with them. How do you say <em>that</em> in Spanish?”</p><p>He groaned and looked so crestfallen it impressed upon you how much horror he must deal with every day, prosecuting special victims cases in the big city. How much that weighed on him and made him see nothing but worst-case scenarios around every corner. It didn’t seem so strange now that he was single—it must be impossible to connect with anyone when you live like that.</p><p>“I just… want you to be safe,” he said quietly, eyes down. A swelling of sympathy flooded your heart, and formed a lump in your throat. Before you could think twice, you’d pulled him into your arms.</p><p>“I feel very safe with you, Rafael.” Your words drew a tiny, strangled noise from his chest, and his grip around you tightened.</p><p>The mood had shifted catastrophically, to the point that it seemed unlikely a one-night stand was in your future any longer. Barba walked slowly by your side, lost in reflective silence. Sex or no, you invited him up to your hotel room. You would never get enough of being around him, and couldn’t bear to say goodbye, even if you were only sitting up talking of somber issues late into the night.</p><p>But by the time the elevator doors closed, leaving you completely alone together for the first time, your libidos overpowered the gloom and his hands were all over your body, his mouth hot and fervent against your throat. You moaned wantonly, confident in the privacy the elevator afforded as it whisked you upward toward the eleventh floor. You slipped your hands inside his jacket, feeling his solid pectoral muscles stretching his shirt, and he cupped a hand between your legs, kneading the crotch of your pants. Even through your jeans, it sparked a fire that sizzled through your whole body. You pulled at his back, drawing more of his weight against you.</p><p>The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Several cleaning ladies stared unimpressed as you and Barba quickly unhanded each other, stood straighter, and tried to pretend you were dignified professionals just riding an elevator together and definitely <em>not</em> almost having sex in there.</p><p>They were far more used to seeing this sort of thing than you were, judging by their almost bored eye rolls, but as you passed them on your way into the hall, one of them muttered something in rapid Spanish that made the other women giggle and Barba trip over his feet, face neon red, and look down at the front of his pants which were sporting a very conspicuous tent.</p><p>“Madre de Dios,” he groaned.</p><p>Shoulders convulsing with laughter, you took his arm and led him to room, uh… You fumbled in your purse for your room key with the number written on it.</p><p>“This is my first time doing this,” you confessed as the magnetic lock clicked and the light on the door changed from red to green.</p><p>“Having sex?”</p><p>“With someone I <em>just met.</em> In a <em>bar!</em>” you teased, turning the handle.</p><p>Part of you wondered when both of you were going to wake up and realize you were acting like horny teenagers—that you shouldn’t be doing this. But you hoped you wouldn’t, at least not until morning. You weren’t nervous. If you had been introspective that night, that would have surprised you the most. The whole confident, sexy Mimi Márquez, Out Tonight act was just a character you put on for karaoke to get psyched up and out of your shell. If you had been questioning yourself, you would have wondered how a shy good girl was having a one-night stand with a handsome Manhattan lawyer wearing a suit that cost more than your mortgage and not having an anxiety attack. But you weren’t questioning yourself, and you weren’t nervous. You looked in his intelligent eyes that were as pale as the underside of a silver maple leaf or dark as a dense hemlock grove depending on the lighting, and you simply <em>wanted</em> him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He followed you into the dark hotel room, which was disappointingly small and shoddy for how expensive it was, so you left the lights off to preserve some mystery. The city glowed through the window brighter than a full moon, anyway. Barba pulled off his suit jacket, tossing it recklessly aside as he prowled toward you. Almost immediately, he thought better of this and found the heap of designer fabric on the floor next to the sandals you had kicked off, picked it up, smoothed it out, and carefully folded it over the back of an office chair at the little desk. He removed his tie and did the same.</p><p>You grinned behind your hand. Changing tunes so quickly from ravenously horny to prim—it didn’t surprise you that a guy who dressed as sharply as he did would have his priorities on wrinkle-avoidance even in the heat of the moment. It might have rubbed you as snobbish if it wasn’t so funny.</p><p>When he returned to you, his back was to the window, so you couldn’t make out the expression on his shadowed face, but the silhouettes of his shoulders were tense and his voice sheepish as if expecting a rebuke. “Sorry. I couldn’t leave it there. It’s a Brioni and—”</p><p>You slid your fingers under the pink-striped suspenders at both shoulders, closed your fists around them, and tugged. He lurched forward, and you caught his lips with yours. Letting out a surprised moan, he closed his eyes, and wrapped his arms around you, grateful you weren’t accusing him of vanity. You held firm to the elastic bands like a leash on him, pulling him closer when you wanted to deepen the contact until he was so enraptured he needed no extra encouragement to shove his tongue between your lips as they parted, his hands roaming your sides, your hair, and over the swell of your bottom, grabbing a handful.</p><p>“You really do… have the best ass… below 14th street,” he said devilishly, in between crushing his hungry mouth against yours.</p><p>Running down the length of his suspenders, your hands took a tour of his entire torso, enjoying the firm bulk of his chest, and the softness of his belly. You liked that there was something to love there. Gym rats with nothing but hard muscle were painfully dull. His stomach twitched ticklishly at your probing touch and he broke away from your lips to protest, so you continued your suspender tour all the way to the bottom, where the leather straps attached the elastic bands to his pants. His hips rocked forward, and his clothed cock pressed into your thigh. You let out a sultry breath and pushed your own hips back against him, lining him up against your clit to ignite a burning, tempting pressure between you. You couldn’t even kiss him. Your mouth hung slack, and all you could focus on was the friction of his hard cock against your aching cunt. You had to get out of these clothes.</p><p>“Bed. Now,” you huffed.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>As he toed off his leather shoes, you slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and were slightly disappointed this did not immediately make his pants fall off. He climbed on top of the blanket, and you climbed onto his lap, throwing a leg over his hips.</p><p>An impressively sized hand with a vein meandering across it curled around that tempting leg, palming the tight denim stretched over your thighs. The hand rode up, found the bottom hem of your blouse and dove under it. You shivered as warm fingertips crested over your jeans and found your waiting skin.</p><p>“Are you okay with this?” he rasped, eyes flicking across your face.</p><p>“Keep going,” you nodded, the prickles of your skin screaming in protest at the thought that he might stop. His hand worked up your side, exploring new territory under your shirt. Every point of contact sent warm waves vibrating out to your most intimate parts. You lowered your mouth to his and your lips melted against his, pussy soaking through your underwear as you felt his body respond beneath you. His clever fingers found the band of your bra and inched over the fabric.</p><p>“Is this alright?” he paused his advance to check in again.</p><p>You leaned close and whispered, “I want you to touch me, papi,” darting your tongue just below his ear, and rolling your hips over his cock again. “Touch me everywhere.”</p><p>He growled, deep and throaty and thick with lust, his own hips bucking up to grind himself against yours. With your carte blanche permission given, a switch flipped inside him and he dove in, roughly palming your breasts with both hands, rolling the fat and finding your hardened nipples through your bra cups. Even through the thicker fabric, his thumbs circled and pinched the sensitive peaks hard enough that you whimpered with every sensation. Your hips were moving without your leave, desperately driving against his cock while your hands quickly worked to unbutton the front of your shirt. He had become an animal, his eyes unfocused, breathing heavy, lost in voracious need.</p><p>“S-slow down,” you tried asking, wondering if he would—if he <em>could</em> at this point, despite all his earlier talk of consent.</p><p>His hands were off you in an instant, and he was apologizing and asking if you were OK.</p><p>“Just testing your off switch,” you smirked as you finished the final button, and your blouse opened up. Marveling at the man beneath your legs, you unhooked the front clasp of your bra and felt his cock stir at the naked sight of you. Any lingering uncertainty was gone—you managed to score the most principled lay in all of New York sitting by himself in a karaoke bar, and you trusted him completely. “Since I already know your on switch, don’t I papi?”</p><p>He swore in Spanish, some excitingly lusty expressions you would have to take note of later.</p><p>“What was it again? Cómo se dice...” you teased, tapping your index finger against your lips in thought. You watched his pupils widen as you pinched your finger between your teeth. “Oh yeah. Damelo, papi. Damelo duro.”</p><p>Hearing those words from your perfect sensuous lips drove him wild. Grabbing your hips, he rolled you onto your back, swapping positions. His fevered mouth pressed wet kisses all over your exposed skin, heated breath dancing over your neck as his tongue flicked out to taste you. You reached down to curl your fingers into his thick, dark hair. He pushed your breasts, which had fallen to the sides, back together and ran his tongue through the cleavage. You drew in a sharp breath. “Just like that, papi,” you moaned. He took a nipple in his mouth, sucking and circling his tongue over it until your cunt was pulsating and your breath coming out in hard, ragged whimpers, then pinched it between his teeth, drawing a yelp of pleasure mixed with pain. You yanked at his hair and your hips bucked jerkily. Your core ached with emptiness, longing to be filled by his cock. You wrapped your legs around his lower back and pulled his hips down against you to feel more of him. The strangled noises in his throat were practically feral as his clothed sex rutted up against you, valiantly striving to be inside you through your pants. His mouth sloppily devoured your breasts until they were burned raw from his stubble.</p><p>He released your nipple with a wet noise and sat up to free his straining erection from his pants. The latching mechanism didn’t seem particularly hard, but after nearly a minute of fumbling he had made very little progress, and you held up a hand and told him to stop.</p><p>He whined and gave you puppy dog eyes, but did as you asked. “Is this another test?”</p><p>“No. It’s just… those pants are not that complicated.”</p><p>His head tipped in confusion.</p><p>“You’re really drunk, aren’t you?” You were tipsy yourself, but considering you could at least manage buttons, you had a sudden, sinking realization that he was far more incapacitated than you. He was so well-spoken and thoughtful you hadn’t noticed, but he was a lawyer—staying controlled and eloquent was his job. You might have been drunk, but he was <em>drunk</em> drunk. “If we have sex right now I think that would make me a predator.”</p><p>He frowned, cock still straining against the binds of his pants. “Technically, in New York state, being intoxicated does not invalidate sexual consent.”</p><p>“Don’t you <em>lawyer</em> this! I don’t care what’s <em>technically</em> legal—you are way too drunk. And I don’t want you waking up with regrets.”</p><p>His shoulders fell, because he knew you were right. It was a law he considered a glaring loophole, and he admired you for doing the right thing, but <em>¡maldita sea!</em> he wished you were just a little less ethical. Deep down he knew he wouldn’t be doing this if he were in full command of himself tonight. But that was why he was so desperate to do it now. He would never let himself go again, not for a long time, and he would miss out on experiencing an intense—if ultimately not real—connection with someone. He would miss out on getting to be with you.</p><p>“Well...” you hesitated, watching the disappointment in his eyes displace what had moments ago been confidence and excitement, and tormented by your own unsatisfied ache. “I mean, we can still fool around, right?”</p><p>He laid his body down alongside you, his breath still coming in hot, shallow pants. His comforting weight settling beside you on the soft hotel mattress stirred up the coiling insistent heat between your legs. “Is this OK?” he whispered, voice heavy with lust. Blood pounded in your ears as his hand slipped under your waistband.</p><p>“Y-yeah, that’s OK,” you nodded. A compromise. It wasn’t <em>sex.</em> Technically.</p><p>Trapped tightly between your skin and your jeans, his fingers reached your slit, spreading it with surprising deftness to find your clit. Waves of pleasure exploded through your body as he pressed an irresistible finger to it, making your thighs spasm and lift off the mattress as you bit back a sinful cry. You were almost screaming from just one touch. The sound of throbbing blood in your ears was deafening, and your cunt throbbed in time with it to an unbearable tempo. God, you wanted him to fuck you with his cock.</p><p>He drew in a shaking breath as he observed your response, his lust-clouded eyes boring into you with a hint of the keen perceptiveness he used in court. He risked probing deeper, pushing a long digit farther into your panties, dragging it through your pussylips as you squirmed beneath him, then drew it back, dripping, to circle your clit, and smiled as you clamped a hand over your mouth to keep a neighbor-waking vocalization in check. You were soaking wet for him, and it made his erection strain jealously against the closure of his slacks. It had been too long, since he’d allowed himself time for anything other than work. It was almost unbearable having someone moan for him and not be able to fuck them. But you said no, so he focused on what you would allow him to do—on giving you the most earthshaking orgasm you’d ever experienced.</p><p>The tightness of your jeans was too restrictive, and you quickly unbuttoned them and zipped them down. “My papi’s fingers feel so good,” you groaned. “I want more of them.”</p><p>“You feel… so good,” he answered, lowering his mouth to yours for a fervent, but surprisingly tender kiss as he moved his fingertips over your swollen, stimulated cunt. He traced over your dripping entrance, and pressed in just the tip of one finger, leaving you gasping for more. He withdrew from your pants and brought his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean, his eyes closing as he savored it. “You taste good, too,” he whispered low and gravelly, almost a growl, though not one you would describe as predatory. There was no danger lurking behind those perceptive eyes—the thrill he gave you had a different source. Your tongue darted over his, dipping into his mouth to taste yourself on his broad tongue.</p><p>“Is papi going to fuck me with those fingers?” you challenged, enjoying the way his breath hitched every time you called him that. You’d heard it in passing and knew it was something like calling him “daddy,” but you’d never expected it to have such a big effect.</p><p>He helped you pull your jeans down below the swell of you ass, not bothering to take them all the way off and interrupt your pleasure any longer. Once he had all the access he needed, he plunged his fingers into you. He observed carefully, gauging your reaction in the way the slick walls of your cunt gripped and twitched around him, and the tone and frequency of your pleading moans. When one finger wasn’t enough, he added a second, satisfied with his judgment as you cried out and arched against him, your hands gripping the blanket at the stretch. “Te gusta, mamita?” he purred, but you were too breathless to give an answer except a throaty carnal whimper.</p><p>Adapting himself to your responses, he alternated penetrating you with his fingers and teasing your clit, kissing you hot and fierce, ramping up his intensity to draw louder and louder cries, leaving a trail of wet bruises down your neck. Curling his fingers inside you, he hit a sweet spot that made your legs begin to tremble. You wailed uninhibited and raw, too overwhelmed with pleasure to try to rile him with another “papi.” He sucked your pulse point under your ear, savoring the feeling of your blood racing beneath his lips. Knowing how turned you were, how much he was affecting you was so deliciously invigorating to his ego. As easily as he could command a courtroom, he’d never had the same confidence in his body. Past lovers would say he had perfect technique, but no soul, no intuition for what a they needed—but here you were, cunt twitching on his fingers, moaning over and over for him.</p><p>Your eyes kept closing to focus on what he was doing between your thighs, but when they opened you saw how intensely he was watching you. The arousal on his face as he watched was intoxicating. You had never seen such anyone look at you with such wanton lust, and it heightened your excitement.</p><p>“Rafael… Raf—oh, <em>fuck,</em>” you hissed, jerking your hips up to deepen the penetration. “Keep going... deeper!”</p><p>“Dime, ‘más profundo,’” he ordered softly, but confidently.</p><p>“M-más profundo, papi.”</p><p>“Eres buena estudiante,” he praised, a smile lighting his eyes as he sank his fingers deeper with enthusiasm. You were getting close, the fire singing between your thighs blossoming outward through your entire body but always coiling tighter in your core, building an unbearable tension that threatened to break you. He rocked his hips, and the heat twisted tighter at the feeling of his iron-hard cock grinding against you.</p><p>You squeezed your hand between your two bodies, groping blindly down his stomach until you found his pants and the massive tent he was pushing into your leg. You grasped the hard outline of his cock, squeezing it and working it through his clothes. He drew a sharp breath and for a moment the rhythmic thrusting of his fingers stuttered and paused. His hemlock-green eyes were black with arousal as they examined you. Then he rocked his hips, thrusting into your palm with a low groan, and his fingers pumped into you again with renewed vigor.</p><p>“Que buena chica eres… Just like that,” he croaked. His breathing was growing ragged, he was starting to fall apart with your hand working his cock.</p><p>He adjusted his weight to free his other hand, stroking the side of your face as he pressed a passionate kiss to your lips. His thumb kneaded your cheeks as they smiled against his mouth and went slack with lust. His mouth wandered lower, teasing your collar bone with light nips to make you yelp and sigh, then bending to take a mouthful of breast. He withdrew his two slick fingers from the depths of your cunt and circled your clit slowly, gently—then fast and rough as he sucked at a hardened nipple, drawing a shattered gasp from your throat. You rubbed his cock frantically, trying to repay some small amount of the pleasure he was giving you. When he plunged his fingers back inside, he added a third, and you moaned at the added fullness—at being stuffed tight, almost too much for you to handle, an intense pleasure threaded through with pain.</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” you cried out, eyes rolling back as you felt your climax build, every nerve ending in your body on fire.</p><p>“Is that a good fuck, or a bad fuck?”</p><p>“Good,” you stammered, barely holding yourself together. “Don’t stop, papi, I’m almost there.” The hint of pain faded into pure bliss as you imagined it was his cock splitting you open.</p><p>His eyes gleamed wickedly as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, watching you come undone with every stroke. This horrible week, he had felt so helpless, useless. It made him doubt himself. But this—this he had control over. Your body. Your arousal. Everything that had fallen apart wasn’t his fault; it was because of circumstances outside his authority to influence. When he was given complete control, this was his effect. He could get any result he wanted, elicit any twitch of your cunt, any moan from your lips, and have you singing in ecstasy just from his fingers. Imagine if you let him fuck you, the songs he could have you singing then.</p><p>He angled his hand so his palm was rubbing against your clit as he thrust, and he could tell you were riding the edge of the precipice by the helpless mewling whimpers pouring from your lips with increased fervor, how your walls began to invite him deeper, taking more of him until he was buried three knuckles deep and you were still bucking your hips to intensify each thrust, starving for more. His own hips began rocking at a frantic pace into your hand.</p><p>“Rafael… <em>Oh, Rafael,</em>” you moaned. You loved the shape of his name in your mouth. It was like you weren’t even strangers, the more you said it. For him, it would have been too personal for a casual hookup most nights, but for some reason it turned him on even more than when you called him papi.</p><p>“Ven conmigo,” he urged softly, his hips stroking at a delirious pace that did not match his calm tone. You didn’t recognize what it meant, but the sound of Spanish rolling over his tongue mixed with the wet lewd noises of his fingers fucking you drove you to the edge.</p><p>“I’m gonna—I’m gonna...” Your voice broke.</p><p>He ducked his head back to your chest and drew a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard just as you came over the precipice and pushing you off it with a violent shove until you wailed out loud, careening into a free-fall steeper and farther than you’d prepared for, your back arching and your walls crashing around his fingers, clenching and convulsing around them.</p><p>“Open your eyes,” he said. “Look at me.” You could hear the lawyer in his voice—controlled, assertive. Not quite a command, but your eyes fluttered open obediently. Holding eye contact while your body was being rocked by wave upon wave of fierce climax was too intimate, but he repeated his request low and soft as a tiger’s purr. Your met his gaze and held it. The look of lust on his face, his lips softly parted, lower lip quivering, renewed the strength of your orgasm and sent another shockwave coursing through you.</p><p>He kept pumping into you through your orgasm, riding out the aftershocks, until your legs were shaking and weak. The sensation of you coming on his fingers turned him on so much, he only needed to rock into your hand once more, flick his tongue over your breast, and he lost control. He was not vocal as you were as his thighs trembled with his own release, but his hips slowed, and then stopped, their desperate thrusting, and you felt a warm, wet spot soak through the front of his pants. Your gasping cries were stochastic and desperate now, overstimulated—you pushed his hand out of your underwear to stop his relentless fingers, and he rolled off of you heavily.</p><p>Laying back on the soft pile of hotel pillows, he slowed his breathing, then sucked his fingers clean one by one with a lascivious growl of pleasure. You watched him, shivering with fascination, and he glanced back at you with a piercing gaze. “I want to fuck you next time. Por favor, déjame a cogerte.”</p><p><em>Next time.</em> You turned away, your cheeks burning up. You never assumed there would be a next time to this, but your heart wouldn’t stop beating at the thought.</p><p>“Next time sounds good. That was…” You turned back to praise him, but his eyes were already closed, and a light snore was emanating from his nose. “...Amazing, you lightweight.”</p><p>The dizzying effect of all the booze was catching up alarmingly quickly now that you were spent. After the strenuous effort of tugging the blanket out from under Barba so you could tuck it over him, you were completely worn out, and within a minute you were fast asleep as well, cuddled under his arm, your chests rising and falling in unison.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Forget, regret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you were questioning how consensual that last chapter was.... now so is everybody involved!</p><p>(I didn't edit this like at all I hope it's OK XD)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The light was what woke him up. Even behind his eyelids, the light was a gnawing pain that irritated him out of what had been an extremely heavy sleep. When he at last gave in to the inevitability of consciousness and opened his sluggish lids, the light seared into his retinas and stabbed him like a dagger through the optic nerve, making him hiss and pull the covers over his head.</p><p>In short, Rafael Barba awoke with a splitting hangover.</p><p>Groaning and shielding his eyes from the blaze with a palm cupped to his forehead, he peeked out of the covers and swiveled his head around. He was lying in a bed that was not his bed, in a room that was not his room. Based on the narrow size of it, the big screen TV at the center, and generic art on the walls, it was clearly a hotel room. The sun shone angrily in through the window, reflecting harshly off the windows of adjacent skyscrapers.</p><p>Something heavy and warm moved in the bed next to him, and made a low noise. At that moment, he realized there was an arm draped around his waist. His head throbbed painfully as his heart sped up.</p><p>You opened your eyes with a yawn, stretching your arms above your head, then propped yourself up on your elbow with a drowsy smile. “Morning, Rafael.”</p><p>He blinked at you, eyes wide and unbelievably pale green in the daylight, with his pupils contracted to dots. “Hello,” he greeted with bewilderment and impending panic that he haphazardly stuffed down inside a well-trained disguise of professional courtesy, though several of its seams were ripping already, only two syllables in.</p><p>“Last night was… something,” you murmured, eyes squinted into narrow slits. You were calm and pleasant, but there was a trace of hesitation in your voice, like you were nervous, or hiding something. It was enough to arouse his suspicions. You knew what was happening. You knew his name and weren’t surprised to find him in your bed, or yourself in this room.</p><p>“Where am I?” he said sternly, words short and clipped. “Who the hell are you?”</p><p>Your eyes opened wide at that, then scrunched closed again with a pained grunt that brought your hand to your face. You opened them again slowly, gradually adjusting to the light, and squinting at him in confusion you rasped, <em>“What?!”</em></p><p>He was convinced of it now. He’d seen enough cases like this, taken enough witness testimony, to understand exactly what had happened to him. “You drugged me,” he growled. “You think you can get away with drugging an A.D.A.? Was this for some kind of… of blackmail?”</p><p><em>“Drugged you?</em> What the <em>fuck?</em>” Your eyes filled up with confusion, hurt, and fear. You scrambled away toward the headboard, wincing. “Are you saying you don’t remember anything? No,” you shook your head, laughing nervously, “This… this is one of those weird pickup artist games so you don’t have to call me, right?” But there was no recognition in his eyes, only a cold, impersonal glare. Your hands flew to your mouth.</p><p>His resolution that you were some sort of predator faltered as he watched you panic, and you seemed so small and frail, and scared. It made no sense that he would wake up with no memory of last night, though. Rafael Barba was always in complete control of himself. He did not drink to excess—he rarely even got drunk—and he would never have gone home with a stranger.</p><p>As he collected the fragments of his thoughts, however, he began to shape a different story. The splitting headache and fuzziness in his mind was familiar—he recognized it from sophomore year at Harvard, and a party with the legacies who shared last names with wings of the library where he had been peer-pressured into drinking so much he blacked out. He ended up being blamed for the whole thing, while his wealthy “friends” didn’t get so much as a stern lecture. That day, he learned a valuable lesson about never letting his guard down. But a dim memory came back from the night before—he remembered being devastated by the result of a trial. He remembered nothing had been going right. And he remembered drinking.</p><p>If he was that drunk… if he couldn’t remember what he did…</p><p>He was stuck to the inside of his pants with dry semen. You had pulled away so that you were no longer under the blankets, and his chest constricted when he saw your shirt and bra torn open, and angry bruises and bite marks covering your neck all the way down to your breasts. Your face was drained of color, and you stared at him with terror when you spotted the direction of his gaze, swiftly closing your blouse. “Oh god,” he croaked. He had seen images just like this hundreds of time, submitted into evidence. He had heard this story a hundred times, too: a normally harmless man gets drunk and assaults someone, then later feigns innocence because he couldn’t remember the crime. Barba had put away men like that, with never an ounce of pity for their excuses. It wasn’t <em>you</em>. He felt nauseous. Blood pounded in his ears.</p><p>“What did I do?” His throat was so dry. He swallowed hard, and swallowed again, but the horrible dryness remained. “Oh god, what did I… Did I do anything inappropriate? Are you hurt? Oh god.” He blinked, glancing around the room to anchor himself to his surroundings. Big hotel flat-screen. Bathroom door. Tiny office desk with his Brioni suit jacket folded over it sloppily. He didn’t remember taking it off. “OK,” he breathed. “I need to establish a timeline. We need to determine if any… if any crimes were… <em>Oh god.</em>” He scrubbed his face with his palm and left his hand clamped over his mouth. He sexually assaulted someone and his life was over. He was one of the monsters he put away.</p><p>“What the fuck is happening?” you half-whispered, the corners of your lips pulling taut into a grimace as your hungover mind spun to catch up with the emotional whiplash of the last sixty seconds.</p><p>His eyes were glassy with unspilled tears, but he tried to smile comfortingly, like he might to a hesitant witness in a trial. “Look, I’m a lawyer. I… I know the detectives in the Special Victims Unit,” he said. You shot back a skeptical glance, and he realized that probably sounded like a veiled threat. “I can give you Sargent Benson’s number. They won’t go easy on me if you press charges, trust me. I’m sure some of them would be happy to handcuff me for how difficult I make their lives. Obviously, I’ll plead guilty to any charges, but first we need to convince the grand jury to indict...”</p><p>Your face had worked through several stages of confusion, cringing, and brow-raising, and finally your brow pinched together and your grimace broke into the dark, guilty grin of someone laughing at something that was probably too serious to laugh at.</p><p>“Rafael, you really...” you covered your eyes and shook your head, “You are really obsessed with proving you’re a rapist; I think your job is doing something to your brain. Maybe you need a vacation.”</p><p>His mind had been working a mile a minute to uncover the crime that would explain the mystery of his distressing circumstances, first accusing you, and then himself of being the perpetrator. But, he had been told more than once that he could be high-strung at times. Maybe there was no crime, legally speaking. At least, he was relieved he hadn’t done something awful. It was still unclear who you were, and why you felt comfortable taking advantage of someone who was severely impaired by alcohol. There was something else… something just out of reach in the smoky nebula of his memory.</p><p>“What do you know about my job?” he asked, eyes narrowed.</p><p>“You told me about it last night!” You sighed heavily, and scooted closer to him. “Tranquilo, Rafael. Cálmate.” You gently pressed his shoulders as you searched his eyes. He flinched away from your touch, and you frowned. “You <em>really</em> don’t remember me? Jesus, you were drunker than I thought. It’s a good thing we didn’t fuck.”</p><p>“We didn’t?”</p><p>“No. You wanted to, but I <em>told</em> you you were too drunk!” You poked his chest in a playful I-told-you-so way, but when he returned only a strained glare, your hand dropped sheepishly to your side.</p><p>He was puzzled and disturbed. Most strangers mistook him for a gringuito, but you just told him to calm down in Spanish. You had obviously spoken at length. But he couldn’t remember. And there was something about you he couldn’t put his finger on, something that felt important. It probably wasn’t. Whenever he forgot something he meant to say, it grated at his brain for the longest time, and when he finally remembered, it was always something like, “I prefer Cheez Doodles over Cheetos.”</p><p>There was something in the way you were looking at him, almost mournfully that stirred up a lost feeling. He wondered what he had said to you last night—what kind of reckless flirt drunk-Barba had been to leave you so heartbroken this morning. He would have felt guiltier, but his head was being squeezed in a lead vice, and he was in no mood to tolerate fools. Maybe you hadn’t <em>intended</em> it, but you had taken advantage of a moment of weakness, and he was done with the whole sordid incident.</p><p>“I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that…” He winced as he stood up from the bed, his underwear yanking on the pubic hair glued to it with dried cum.</p><p>“Please, stay and use the shower,” you offered, but it was more like a plea.</p><p>“Well, I certainly can’t go out like <em>this,</em>” he snipped. His shirt was wrinkled, and his slacks ruined, with the embarrassing pièce de résistance of the crispy, stiff area at his crotch which could not escape anyone’s notice. He could only imagine what his hair was doing.</p><p>Your eyes followed him as he bustled around the small room wearing a sour expression, checking the closet for, and gratefully finding, an ironing board. They kept following him until he closed the bathroom door behind him, and he was left alone with your helpless eyes still hanging in front of him in his imagination, and the strange way they made him feel. He had a million questions for you, but he was certain he did not want the answers.</p><p>It’s not as if this story could have had a happy ending, anyway. He was an A.D.A. with a career in the public eye, and this was already bordering on a scandal. Drunken hookups with party girls at bars never ended well. It was better to just forget.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. What'd You Forget? (Got a Light?)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You had been nervous waking up next to a stranger. You knew you’d both been drunk, and caught up in a karaoke dream. Now that the night’s carefree energy had worn off, and the glamorous glow of stage lights were replaced by the garish light of day, you were worried things would be awkward.</p><p>Of course, you had pictured something more along the lines of, he would think you were ugly, or you would freeze up and blurt something stupid, or he’d slip his wedding ring out of his pocket, put it back on his finger, and smack you on the ass as he swaggered out, and you’d feel like an idiot.</p><p>You had not expected the shitstorm of him not remembering anything.</p><p>He was drunk, but with the way he was spouting off legal advice, you would never have imagined he was blackout drunk. You never imagined waking up to being accused of drugging him. God—this was what you got for letting loose for once. It always seemed so glamorous when your college roommates brought guys home after a night of partying, but of <em>course</em> the one time you do, you’re a sexual predator. Fuck!</p><p>Then again, it was starting to make sense. Because immediately after accusing you, he practically tried to arrest himself. The open, flirtatious charmer you met at the bar was so unlike this tightly-wound ball of anxiety, he must have been down to his last brain cell last night. It was just that each and every one of his brain cells happened to contain the entire New York bar exam.</p><p>But that didn’t make you a predator, did it? He was fine. Maybe not <em>fine</em>, but not… It wasn’t like he was <em>unconscious</em>. Oh, god, was that really how low you wanted to set the bar? It’s fine to take advantage of drunk people so long as they haven’t passed out yet? Or so long as they’re men? Your stomach turned. Everything he said about filing charges against him… suddenly you were certain you were the one who should be standing in front of a grand jury.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Barba waved the compact hotel-provided blow dryer over his freshly washed and rung out boxers. His pants and shirt would need to be ironed before he would dare leave the hotel room (it was bad enough that he had none of his usual hair product and was already dreadfully fuzzy), but the large ironing board wouldn’t fit inside the small hotel bathroom. He would have to go back out there, but he didn’t have a change of pants. He wondered if would be appropriate to walk around in just his boxers. You had already seen him naked, he supposed. Maybe. He didn’t really know what happened between you, but it seemed a bit late to be feeling shy.</p><p>Then again, he still could not be certain he wasn’t the one who pushed himself on you. As he got into the shower, he had smelled you on his fingers, and the scent was so intoxicating he had to stop himself from licking them. A little clip of memory returned, your lips warm and inviting against his, the taste of your tongue, his hips rolling desperately against yours, and he realized what that feeling was that he could not quite place. It was attachment: a deep, carnal, passionate, bond. Probably the product of oxytocin or… pheromones? Some lizard-brain part of him had developed an irresistible need for you.</p><p>It wouldn’t be unusual for a victim in your situation to act friendly toward her abuser, if you hadn’t fully processed yet. If he had taken advantage of a drunk woman at a bar, he certainly had no desire to traumatize you further by strutting around half naked.</p><p>He put on his toasty boxers and mostly-clean undershirt, and knocked at the bathroom door, poking his head out into the room, eyes averted. “Sorry to ask, but do you have a pair of sweatpants that might fit me?”</p><p>There was a flash of movement, and a loud sniff as you jolted up into a sitting position. He looked up, and noticed you hadn’t moved from the spot on the bed where he had left you, and you were facing away from him, rubbing your eyes.</p><p>“I… I might have something,” you said, trying to hide the waver in your voice.</p><p>Without thinking he rushed out, closing the distance in three steps, then stood awkwardly by the side of the bed, suddenly aware that he had no idea what to do. “Are… are you OK?” he asked. A knot tightened in his stomach. It was him, wasn’t it? You must have remembered something he did.</p><p>Your big eyes looked up at him, red and glistening with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you whimpered.</p><p>Oh. He dropped onto the bed beside you, staring at his lap.</p><p>“I didn’t think you were… You wanted it so much! You didn't seem…. But you were. God, you were <em>crying!</em> You hugged me at the bar and cried into my shirt, I should have known you were in a vulnerable place. I took advantage of you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to—what do I do to make this right? Are you going to press charges? I’ll do what you said you would, I’ll plead guilty.”</p><p>His lizard-brain had the strong impulse to pull you into his arms and tell you it was all alright. His lawyer voice answered automatically, “There’s no case. You committed no crime in New York State if I consented at the time, so long as I was not drugged against my will. Which you… didn’t?” he hazarded a guess. “Even if there was a sexually based offense here—a male victim and female defendant? No jury would ever convict you. The D.A. wouldn’t touch it without ironclad proof of wrongdoing.”</p><p>“Th-that’s not the issue! And that’s terrible!”</p><p>“It’s… the system,” he gave a commiserating shrug. “Justice has never been blind.”</p><p>“But if I hurt you…” You fell silent, and were quiet for awhile, not sure what to say, or do. His words were not exactly comforting, but they weren’t condemning either. You were more confused than ever.</p><p>“If you want to make it up to me, start by lending me some pants?” he asked with a smirk that was somewhere between rakish and about-to-die-of-embarrassment, dragging a corner of the blanket over his lap.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A tiny cloud of steam puffed from the clothing iron as Barba methodically pressed the appropriate creases back into his dress pants while smoothing the unwanted wrinkles out. His ejaculate had not left a permanent stain, and, vain as it was to admit, that had him feeling significantly relieved about the entire situation. That, and vomiting his guts out, taking an aspirin, and downing several cups of bad coffee from the coffee maker.</p><p>“Alright,” he said, taking his eyes off the iron just long enough to give you a probing look where you sat, cross-legged on the bed, “Walk me through everything that happened last night. Step by step.”</p><p>His gaze, though brief, was intense, like you were a witness for the defense and he was ready to poke holes in anything less than the full and complete truth. Yet it was harder to be intimidated now that he was wearing your pink and blue plaid Vermont Flannel pajamas, looking very domestic in front of an ironing board. And since you had noticed his pink heart socks that matched the color of his tie.</p><p>“What’s the last thing you <em>do</em> remember?”</p><p>The flash of memory of your warm lips sprang, unwanted, into the forefront of his mind. He pushed it away, and dug further back. “The McCaskey trial ended. Everyone took the verdict hard.” His lip twitched but he restrained himself from saying aloud that it was all his fault. Nobody needed a pity-party. “Everyone else had their own Friday plans, so I went out to drink alone. Don’t give me that look, I drink alone all the time.”</p><p>The look you were giving intensified.</p><p>“OK, I see how that sounded worse. I drink moderately. I have never done anything like...” He lifted the iron and used it to gesture to the entire waking-up-drunk-in-a-strange-hotel-room situation. His brow knit as he tried to peer deeper into his memory, but everything grew dream-like from there. “I need to know how this happened.”</p><p>“Do you remember singing?” you prompted.</p><p>“I <em>sang?</em>”</p><p>“We did half the soundtrack of <em>RENT.</em>”</p><p>“Dear lord…” In his stunned embarrassment, he stopped moving the iron and nearly burned his pants, jerking the iron up at the last second.</p><p>“You have a beautiful voice,” you smirked, suddenly quite enjoying his bewilderment.</p><p>“Oh god,” he moaned woefully.</p><p>He folded his pants and set them aside on the chair with his jacket, which also needed a bit of care, but would suffice enough for the walk of shame back home. He spread his rumpled dress shirt on the ironing board.</p><p>The thin fabric of his undershirt stretched over his chest, so that every movement showed off the working of robust muscles. Its low cut neck revealed a swath of dark chest hair. The overall effect made you fight with your inner voice not to run your hands all over him.</p><p>“Anything coming back?” you asked hopefully, but he only glanced up and shrugged. They say music has a profound connection to memory, so you risked singing a few bars. <em>“What’s the time? Well it’s gotta be close to midnight...”</em></p><p>At first he just gave a wry little chuckle, focusing on ironing his shirt. Then his head snapped up, eyes focused far beyond the wall of the hotel room.</p><p>“They set up karaoke in my bar?” He set the hot iron aside as his mind worked over this bizarre realization as you nodded your head, confirming it was not some weird dream he had. He covered his shameful face with a large hand, pinching the tension building in the bridge of his nose. His eyes darted down at you between his fingers. “We sang together,” he breathed. He raked his hand slowly down the length of his face. As his palm brushed over his lips, the sensation of yours came back to him again: a supple, giving pressure, your tongue wet and eager and sweet like strawberry. A racing, fluttering in his heart made his breathing hitch. He felt sweaty.</p><p>He was just breathing now, staring down at you with such intensity in those leaf-green eyes, the urge to run your hands down his chest returned. But it was more than that. For the first time since you woke up, his eyes were looking at you with something like recognition. You almost glimpsed the friend you’d made, the one whose absence you’d been feeling like a hole in the gut. Then he shook his head, and it was gone.</p><p>“Tell me what happened next,” the prosecutor said.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The Rafael Barba of this morning was much more like what you’d expect a big-shot city lawyer to be. Now that you had seen him sober it was obvious how drunk he was already before he got up to sing. Everything you told him turned his face and his neck a new shade of red.</p><p>By the time you finished the story, he had finished ironing and changed back in to everything but his jacket and tie. He sat down next to you on the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress so you had to resist gravity not to lean into him.</p><p>“So we didn’t have sex?”</p><p>“No. I could tell you were too drunk to consent. You just fingered me. I probably shouldn’t have let you get in my pants at all, but I… I guess I really wanted to.” You blushed and your head fell, trapped between wanting to savor the delicious memory and ashamed of your conduct.</p><p>He groaned, pressing his lips thin into a tense but smug smirk. “Legally? Everything about that statement is wrong. New York law states that someone who becomes drunk voluntarily is not deemed mentally incapacitated to give consent.”</p><p>“I know. You’ve said that twice already. What’s legal isn’t always the same as what’s right.”</p><p>His bright eyes sparkled when you said that. “Agreed. But irrelevant,” he brushed off your interruption. “For the purposes of determining criminal sexual assault, New York law also does not distinguish between penetration by penis, finger, or foreign objects. In other words—if, hypothetically, New York changed its laws regarding intoxication and consent—I would be guilty of raping you.” He said it in his callous, matter-of-fact voice, then after thinking about the weight behind his conclusion, looked as if his head might explode. His eyes fell across the marks still visible above your collar. “The way you tell it...” he began hesitantly, low and shamed, “It sounds like I’m the one who got drunk and pushed myself on you.”</p><p>“No!” you cried immediately, with a force that startled you both, and aggravated your headaches. "You didn’t push. If I said no, you would have stopped… I checked,” you added with a small laugh.</p><p>He exhaled in relief. “Really?” he raised a soft brow with a bit more blond in it than his hair.</p><p>“Yep. You’re quite the gentleman, even blackout drunk. That’s why I didn’t think you were…” You trailed off.</p><p>“Well. It’s good to know there are lines I won’t cross.”</p><p>Your hands were folded tightly in your lap. He was hunched over with his chin buried deep in his fist. You opened your mouth to speak, but he spoke first, and you apologized at the same time for talking over each other.</p><p>“You first,” he said.</p><p>“I just… I’m sorry, Rafael. Mr. Barba? I don’t…” you sighed, and gave him a weary smile. “Last night was a lot of fun. We had fun together. I liked getting to know you. I’m sorry it turned into such a shit show. I should have just gotten your number and said goodnight.”</p><p>“I don’t know which one of us to blame,” he said with finality. You looked so helpless and small, the fierce urge to protect you welled in his chest. He hated to think of you carrying guilt over his own stupid mistakes. “I don’t blame you.” He reached an arm behind you to pat your back, but his hand froze, shaking, without making contact. He didn’t know how you’d feel about him touching you.</p><p>You leaned into the open space his arm created, turning your head into his shoulder in a side-hug. The primal impulse fighting him for control screamed in victory, taking in the smell of your hair and relishing it. His hand patted your upper back stiffly, three times, like a good soldier obeying conscious, sober, higher-brain Barba. You pulled back and stammered an apology, cheeks darkening.</p><p>“Well. Then.” He stood suddenly, swallowing. He bustled about the room collecting his things, touching up his hair, getting ready to leave.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>You leaned against the wall by the door, waiting to say goodbye, debating and mentally practicing the words you wanted to say. Finally, he stood in the narrow entryway, and you had your chance.</p><p>“Hey. Maybe this is too forward, but… do you want to hang out again?” you asked, eyes having trouble deciding whether they wanted to gaze deep into his or avoid him entirely and stare at the ground.</p><p>“What could be forward about a date after <em>this?</em>” he shot you a look from under his eyebrows. “The fact that I would remember it?”</p><p>Ground. Your eyes made up their mind; you stared doggedly at the ground hoping it might open up and drop you eleven stories to merciful death on the lobby floor.</p><p>“It’s nothing personal,” he began buttoning up his jacket, “it’s just… this was a mistake. I do not have time to be frolicking about like a sophomore at a liberal arts school. I let myself get out of control. Whoever you met last night is not who I am.” He tugged the jacket to straighten it for emphasis, though all the while his heart was fighting against the bounds of his rib cage. You looked so downtrodden. Apparently you had a wonderful, magical time singing musical theater karaoke with his drunk alter-ego, and in less than an hour sober he had already made you cry once, and seemed poised to do it again. “You don’t know me,” he sighed. “I know you even less. I doubt you would like me very much.”</p><p>“But maybe I would,” you said, finally returning his gaze with fragile determination. “I’d like to at least get to know you sober. To see if this… meant anything. I don’t want to believe this was all a mistake, that everything I felt—that I thought you felt, too—was a lie. I don’t know if you’ll like me, either, but how do you ever get to know anyone if you don't give getting to know them a chance?”</p><p>His jaw tightened with the obvious answer that he <em>didn’t</em>. Barba had work, and he had his lonely Scotch at his usual bar (which it now looked like he might have to replace if it was turning into a karaoke dive).</p><p>“Aren’t you lonely, Mr. Barba?” you asked, as if reading his mind.</p><p>“No,” he said tersely, but then softened his answer, “My work keeps me too busy for relationships. I don’t have the time.”</p><p>“Is there no room in your schedule for one date? I’m not asking for a relationship, just… a half hour to do something fun. I feel awful about how bad this was for you. I just want to leave you with something to remember me by… that you’ll actually remember.”</p><p>He did have more fun with you than he’d had in years. Even from the handful of scrambled memories that came back to him, he could tell that much—how good it felt to let go and belt out songs he only ever sang in the shower, to have a partner singing back to him, completely in sync with each other. He remembered babbling on about laws, and you patiently listening like it was actually interesting and not obnoxious. As you fidgeted nervously awaiting his answer, you added a coy, “¿Por favor?” and his mind filled in <em>por favor, papi.</em> It brought with it another snippet of memory. A song you were singing, together, your beautiful eyes looking right into his, pleading. <em>“The heart may freeze, or it can burn.”</em></p><p>He grumbled and shifted feet. “I have a lot of prep for my next case, but I should be finished with it by nine,” he said. His tone was so flat and sharp it took you a long moment to realize what he meant. “If you want to… have dinner.”</p><p>You beamed ear to ear, pushing off from the wall to bounce on your toes so vibrantly you made yourself nauseous and had to stand still. Then your face fell. “Ah—you mean tonight? I can’t tonight, I’m going to Hamilton with my parents. How about tomorrow? I’m getting dim sum with a friend at Radiance. She’s bringing her girlfriend so I’ll be a total third wheel if I don’t have a date.”</p><p>“You want to bring the stranger from your drunken hookup to lunch date with an old friend?” he grimaced. “Won’t that be, I don’t know, awkward?”</p><p>“Oh, <em>incredibly.</em> But we can lean into that, for fun, and science!” you grinned dangerously.</p><p>“How about breakfast,” he offered. “Coffee?”</p><p>“Coffee would be great.”</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Una Cita</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Drunk. He must have still been drunk that morning. There was no other explanation for his wildly impulsive, juvenile decision to accept a date with you after that fiasco of a morning, waking up in your hotel with zero memory of what was almost certainly an even <em>bigger</em> fiasco of a night.</p><p>But he had agreed to it. Given you the address of his favorite coffee spot that didn’t have wheels. Set a time. It seemed childish to back out on you at the last minute just because he’d had twenty-four hours to sober up and think about his life choices. And so, Rafael Barba stood outside, leaning near the door out of the way of foot traffic, impatiently glaring at the minute hand of his watch.</p><p>At least it was only breakfast. Nothing exciting had ever happened this early in the morning. Everyone in the relatively small Sunday crowd seemed too tired to be here. He would show up for one bleary-eyed date, like an adult, make sure you were still alright, and, assuming your story hadn’t changed—that everything was consensual, and you hadn’t remembered something traumatic he’d forgotten he’d done—you could both part ways with a clear conscience.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The GPS on your phone indicated you were at the corner of the street you needed to turn down. There would be no going back if you turned that corner—the café was just a few doors down. You almost turned around and walked back to your hotel, but before you could leave, you saw him. Across the street, under the awning of the café, a short, well-dressed man radiating authority stood checking his watch with the words “Why the hell did I agree to this?” creased into his brow. You recognized that expression from your own face and almost laughed, only holding it in because you didn’t want to be that crazy person laughing to herself in the middle of a crowd.</p><p>His handsomeness had not been an illusion of the drink and low lights of the bar, you realized as you crossed the street. He was really fucking handsome. He wore another stylish and expensive suit, a colorful blue-striped tie, and you assumed suspenders under the jacket, and his dark hair was groomed with precision to the side.</p><p>By the time you were close enough to hear his voice calling out to greet you, you remembered kissing him, and how solid his chest felt when your arms were wrapped around him. A flush of heat warmed the base of your spine, and suddenly you were glad you had made this date after all.</p><p>Barba was not so sure. Not at first.</p><p>He wasn’t certain he would even recognize you in a crowd, but the moment you turned the corner, he spotted you. Your face was permanently stamped into his memory, right along with the time he wet the bed at a sleepover in second grade and the waitress to whom he’d replied “you too” after she told him to enjoy his meal.</p><p>The first thing he noticed was that your clothes were not as nice as he perceived when he was drunk. What little memory he had of karaoke painted you as a perfect goddess of seduction, with legs that went on for miles, wearing couture woven by angels out of dewdrops. Even in your disheveled state the morning he <em>could </em>remember, he had somehow maintained a lofty impression of your image. But the cute little sundress swishing around your knees as you crossed the street was not designer. It looked nice on you, but was more comfortable, practical, and a bit hippie-chic. You were even wearing a backpack instead of a purse. Your whole aesthetic was woefully down-to-earth. Like a Subaru. You were the Subaru of people.</p><p>Yet, even his unfortunate habit of judging people based on their clothing couldn’t dull the spark he felt when you drew close enough to smell your shampoo and look into your bright eyes. He couldn’t help feeling irrationally protective when those bright eyes froze as you stood in front of him, almost spreading your arms for a hug, then almost extending a hand, and then staring like a panicked deer that wandered into Times Square.</p><p>“Good to see you,” he smiled, pressing your shoulder amicably, sparing you from the decision.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>After a short wait in line to order your latte and croissant sandwich, Barba squeezed into one of the tiny seats at one of the tiny tables in front of the window, and you squeezed in next to him. It was such a tight fit, your shoulders almost touched every time you lifted the mug to your lips, and your legs bumped accidentally amid stammered, awkward apologies.</p><p>“So...” you began, and your voice sounded far away, like you were trapped deep inside your own skull operating levers to make yourself speak. And you had nothing planned after “so,” and nothing came to you organically, so even though it was a trite, over-used question, you sputtered out, “How have you been?”</p><p>“Not bad,” he replied, just as stiffly rote. “You?” The boilerplate question sparked a deeper concern, and he twisted in his seat to grab your eye contact under a furrowed brow, and asked more seriously, “Are you OK?”</p><p>Your cheeks burned. He must have noticed how weird and nervous you were and thought there was something wrong with you. “I-I’m fine!” you squeaked.</p><p>His brows stayed wrinkled with worry. He lowered his voice. “If you… remembered anything. Anything painful. Something you need to work out, to process… report? I want you to know I will support anything you need to do. If I hurt you, I will do whatever it takes to make it right.”</p><p>“Oh!” You nearly spilled your drink. “No, no! God. Nothing like that. Just… embarrassment. Shame. I mean, if anyone should be angry or need to process stuff, it’s you. That was all my fault.”</p><p>He breathed a little sigh and his shoulders relaxed. He nodded to himself and turned back to his coffee. With a sideways glance and a sly smirk, he added, “You know, you shouldn’t incriminate yourself in front of a prosecutor.”</p><p>You were pretty sure he was joking, but your laugh was tight and high in your throat, and your palms began to sweat.</p><p>“Actually—” you reached into a pocket and pulled out your phone, “Tengo unos fotos… if it will help you remember?”</p><p>He stopped mid-sip, set the mug back down on the narrow shelf of a table, then coughed into his fist. A near spit-take. “What do you mean, you have photos? Qué tipo de fotos? Muéstramelas.”</p><p>Barba had forgotten, or didn’t care, that your Spanish wasn’t terrifically fluent and made his demand at a rapid, clipped pace. Fortunately, your first instinct was to show him.</p><p>It was a good thing he had already set down his coffee, because his eyes went wide, and he choked on the air. Picture after picture of him red-faced and disheveled, most of them with a wolfish grin and his hands all over you. He still had on his tie and the grey peppering his temples was evident, and you looked so young and innocent you could almost be mistaken for underage in the soft lighting. The angle of the selfie drew attention to your cleavage. You flipped back once more, and a crackle of tinny audio burst from the phone speakers as a shaky video of Barba singing the tail end of One Song Glory began to play. “Shit,” you cursed, and muted it.</p><p>“Delete that,” he croaked, raking his fingers down his face. “God, this is a scandal. Those look—I look—” His eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head with a brash, hostile grin. “Is this blackmail? Is this blackmail amateur hour?”</p><p>“What? No! Why would this be… Oh my god, are you cheating on someone?!”</p><p>He scowled with indignation at the very suggestion. “I would never cheat on someone. Those make me look like a… a boozy lecher. It could damage my reputation if they got out. Why do you have those?” he hissed, feigning a pleasant smile over gritted teeth. It looked like it hurt his face.</p><p>“<em>You</em> told me to take pictures and send them to a friend! You kept going on about ‘gathering evidence’ in case things went sideways.”</p><p>“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed. “It <em>is</em> sound advice,” he considered. “That sounds like me,” he concluded, pinching his brow.</p><p>“I’ll delete them all, OK? See? I’m deleting them.” You clicked the trash button and watched them disappear one by one as Barba’s blood pressure went down. “Ooh, I’m keeping this one, though,” you said, fawning.</p><p>You flipped the screen to show him a selfie of him smiling wide and carefree, cheeks flushed, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, and you kissing his cheek. It was sweet, almost chaste. The karaoke stage was in the background, and you both looked like you were having a great night.</p><p>Present-Barba’s horrified expression didn’t soften. Your face fell. “Alright, I’m deleting this one too,” you soothed.</p><p>Your wistfulness must have tugged at his heart as you gave the picture one last look, trying to memorize the happiness you’d felt when you took it. With your finger poised over the delete button, he caught your wrist. “No… If you really like it, that one isn’t horrible. Just don’t send it to anyone in the DA’s office. Por favor.”</p><p>“I won’t,” you promised. His eyes were an overpoweringly lush green as they fixated on yours so close up, and you could swear there was a spark of the connection you’d felt that night. Then he blinked, and it was gone, self-consciously letting go of your wrist.</p><p>With that matter resolved, Barba became cold and distant, as if all he’d come to do was settle things from that night once and for all, and now he was done with you. You tried to carry the conversation forward, but he met your efforts to bond with the sober version of him with minimal, dismissive responses, leaving you in uncomfortable silence. He would barely even look at you anymore. It made you feel small.</p><p>Barba was right—you didn’t know him.</p><p>The mood was tense as you quietly chewed your croissant, and it would have been tenser if not for the cramped tables. Had you a spacious seating arrangement, you might have felt the distance between your two obviously different lives stretch out between you like a vast, insurmountable chasm.</p><p>Had you met the real Barba first, you would have known this guarded, cynical, tightly-wound ball of nerves and assholery would never sing karaoke without being three sheets to the wind.</p><p>The effortlessly charming open-book of a man you’d been wooed by two nights ago was a fiction crafted by alcohol. Without his flirtatious nature to offset the severity of his bespoke suits and high-profile job, you were weighted down with the thought that this man had his shit together more than you ever would. He was too good for you. He thought so, too. You saw that look in his eyes, the sarcastic quirk of his mouth as he glanced over you outside the café, though he’d tried to hide it. Your entire outfit cost about a tenth of his jacket alone, and his rich-jerk radar honed right in on it. Barba said you might not like him sober, and he seemed keen to prove himself right. When he finally did ask you questions, it felt like you were failing a test—his brow going up because you had never heard of some famous restaurant or popular composer, proving yourself a cultural dilettante in spite of your mutual love of <em>RENT</em>. When you asked about his job, he was all but sneering at your lack of legal acumen on what he considered very basic things.</p><p>You would have downed your latte in under fifteen minutes, shaken his hand, and never seen him again if not for one seemingly unimportant fact.</p><p>The table <em>was</em> cramped.</p><p>Forced to sit so close together, waves of his scent kept washing over you like an aphrodisiac. He smelled radically different than last time. Then, he was steeped in the stinging smokiness of scotch whisky and the heady musk of sweat from a long day on his feet in the courtroom and the claustrophobic press of bodies at the bar. Today he smelled clean, like fresh soap and a woody, spicy, citrusy cologne as old-fashioned and classy as his suspenders. There was something profoundly soothing in the way he smelled. Soothing enough to push back your anxiety about being unworthy of his attention, and enough to enjoy the sparks of heat spreading under your skin every time your elbows or legs bumped.</p><p>The smell of him and the press of his body was enough to make you horny, angry, and bold enough to take him by the hand once the date was done, and drag him somewhere you could teach him a lesson about underestimating you.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?” you growled over your shoulder, as if that was meant to be an answer to his question of “Where are we going?” He fell a step behind your determined pace as you literally pulled him down the sidewalk with a scary, but—he had to admit—sexy fire burning in your eyes.</p><p>“I never said that,” he cried unconvincingly, and felt he rather deserved it when you scoffed in response. He could be hard on people who couldn’t keep up with his standards, unless they were the victim of a horrifying enough crime to stir his compassion. And now that he was sure he hadn’t hurt you, well… you were just some woman from a bar who didn’t know the difference between civil litigation and criminal trials.</p><p>The fact that the neckline of your dress was so dangerously low, he caught a peek of something he shouldn’t when you leaned over your latte was just another reason to distance himself from you. He cursed his weakness for the tightening in his pants.</p><p>But that picture stuck in Barba’s mind. He was ashamed of his behavior, but at the same time, he was fascinated by this other Barba. The smiling Barba who didn’t make a million anxious excuses for why he <em>couldn’t</em> or <em>shouldn’t</em> be with someone he desired, who didn’t tell himself to wait, and wait, and wait until they were gone. He looked so comfortable with the woman on his lap in that picture. He wondered what exactly happened to make you grow so close?</p><p>After marching for several blocks, you finally slowed down where the geometric grey concrete of the city broke upon an oasis of wild green. Barba hunched forward, catching his breath in front of the entrance to Central Park closest to the pond. “Alright,” you challenged him with your hands on your hips, “Name <em>one</em> of these trees. Just one.”</p><p>“Shirley.”</p><p>You narrowed your eyes until he dropped his clever little grin.</p><p>“Worth a try,” he shrugged, straightening up. He unbuttoned his jacket to let some of the heat out. He pointed to a large tree near the path with three-pointed leaves and smooth, camouflage-patterned bark. “That’s a maple,” he said with confidence.</p><p>You raised your eyebrows at his breathtaking ignorance and tutted. “Oh, Rafael, that’s such an easy one. This is an American Sycamore, <em>Platanus occidentalis</em>. The bark is a dead giveaway, and maples have opposite leaf arrangement, while sycamore is alternate. But I’ll let it slide since the leaves are similar.” Your voice was dripping with intellectual condescension, and he immediately understood that you had brought him here to humiliate him. A familiar roar burned inside him that he felt any time someone thought they could get the better of him. His sharp eyes bore into yours, the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. Rafael Barba did not back down from a challenge.</p><p>He walked farther into the park, past sweeping rock formations covered with climbing children, and you followed behind, watching him as he swiveled his head in search. It was almost magical how the park felt like a trail in the countryside until you looked up to see the gleaming peaks of skyscrapers and 5th Avenue. Barba stopped next to a green park bench in front of a tall conifer with drooping branches. “Pine,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know what you’re trying to do, but even a city boy knows what a pine tree looks like.”</p><p>Except from the way your cheeks puffed out as you tried to contain your laughter, he apparently should not have sounded so sure of himself. Or you were just being vindictive, pretending he was wrong because you assumed he wouldn’t know the difference.</p><p>“That is a pine,” he insisted. “That’s basic middle school science class.”</p><p>“That is a <em>conifer</em>,” you corrected, still giggling at his expense, and his cheeks darkened with realization. Conifer. Pine. They were different things. He braced himself as you lectured him like a school teacher about how the Norway Spruce is in the genus <em>Picea</em>, while pine trees—and there was a White Pine right over there, too!—are in a totally separate genus, <em>Pinus</em>. When he tried to call it hair-splitting and trivia, you exploded. “You realize we live on a planet, right? All of human life on Earth couldn’t exist without forests—you literally need trees to breathe—yet you can’t identify a single one. Your furniture is made of maple, beech, oak,” you gestured to a few specimens, “but you don’t know what they look like growing in front of you. It is crazy to me how people lack even a basic understanding of the environment <em>we can’t survive without</em>. If we didn’t have laws, life would go on. If the whole world was paved like New York City, humanity would go extinct. So go ahead and judge me for not knowing who Puccini is when you know fuck-all about the planet.”</p><p>You had worked yourself into a lather, and all he could think was how much he wanted to kiss you. Your face was flushed, and you were so animated with passion for the subject as you laid into him—even though he knew nothing about it or even found it particularly interesting, he oddly enjoyed being torn apart by your arguments. You might make a great lawyer, if your clients were green.</p><p>“Are we even?” he smiled. “Now that <em>you’ve</em> judged <em>me?</em>”</p><p>You took a half step back and covered your mouth. “I… got a little defensive, didn’t I?” you cringed.</p><p>“Just a little,” he pinched his fingers together so they were almost touching. He stepped toward you.</p><p>“Sorry about that,” you laughed nervously. “Yeah. We’re even.”</p><p>He took another step closer, and you didn’t back away as he entered your personal space. He could feel his heart hammering behind his rib cage. Behind his over-dressed tie. His tongue darted unconsciously across his lower lip as he glanced down at that temptingly low neckline before snapping his eyes away to meet yours. He wondered if you’d noticed his glance. If you had, your reaction was not to slap him. There was a tentative hope shining in your eyes, breath catching as he stood too close to be platonic.</p><p>“So, you’re the Lorax,” he smirked.</p><p>“I do speak for the trees,” you said, glad to finally understand one of his references. “I work in conservation. Mostly management plans to control invasive species.”</p><p>He tipped his head back with a knowing “Ah,” that you were in some outdoorsy field. That explained your crunchy-granola vibe and the fact that you weren’t at all winded by speed-walking six blocks to get here. You were some sort of forest nymph, a fae creature who had come out of the woods to seduce and enchant him, and spirit him away into the ether.</p><p>Your lips were close enough that he could capture them in one fluid motion of his neck, but he hadn’t yet, and now you were simply talking too awkwardly close together while a million excuses not to chanted in the back of his sober mind. So he reached for your hand instead.</p><p>“You know, there’s a whole field of environmental law that I am woefully rusty on…” he began. Linking arms, you chatted about your interests as you strolled through the park in the cool morning air of what would be a humid summer day.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Or Life is Yours to Miss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>SMUT</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The twenty-minute coffee date Rafael Barba had been dreading somehow turned into hours without him realizing it. The summer morning passed quickly until the sun was at its zenith above the turtle pond, and all of the work-related responsibilities he would have been grinding himself to death on had slipped his mind as he wandered through the park with your hand in his.</p><p>It turned out that you did have a few things in common. You both grew up in the Bronx. Though when you told him where, he snorted and joked, “What is an upstanding young lady from Spuyten Duyvil doing with a boy from the projects?”</p><p>Your jaw dropped when he told you what neighborhood he grew up in. It was an area you were familiar with mainly as a place to avoid, especially, god forbid, at night. The clean-cut lawyer in a sharp suit did not look anything like what you’d expect from the poverty he came from. You just assumed his family was wealthy.</p><p>“That’s incredible,” you said, a new surge of admiration for him stoking the fire of your attraction. You scooted closer on the shaded bench beneath a tall oak you’d stopped to sit on, your bare leg pressing against his slacks. You still hadn’t kissed, everything just barely skirting the romantic. The touch of his hand shot electricity through your skin, just from his fingers brushing yours. Neither of you wanted to push things too far, too fast, considering the guilt still lingering between you. “You must be a genius.”</p><p>Instead of boasting with the sly, cocky grin you had learned was among his favorite facial expressions, he grew serious, all but a trace of a smile leaving his lips. “I just worked hard,” he said.</p><p>“Really hard,” you said, knowingly, squeezing his hand. “Even people who work hard, who are smart… it’s almost impossible to escape that kind of poverty. The fact that you did it is…”</p><p>His inquisitive eyes, matching the foliage behind him, were strained as if deciding whether to share something or not. But he did, quietly. “I still work hard. Every day. It feels like if I make one false step, everything could fall apart. But, I have enough to support my mother.”</p><p>“And an impressive collection of ties,” you chimed.</p><p>He smirked, lifting your hand to casually press a kiss to the back of your knuckles. “And suspenders.”</p><p>Your pulse raced. Looking up and down this flawlessly stylish man, it all made sense. “Dressed to kill,” you muttered. “You wear it like a disguise.”</p><p>He frowned, the warmth leaving his eyes. You had touched a nerve. “Would it be a disguise if you wore it, or just because I’ll always be poor deep down?”</p><p>“I didn’t mean—OK, I get how that sounded. I just mean… you are exceptionally attractive. Like, really attractive. I mean, why am I telling you? You know that. Look at you.” You continued the obsequious flattery until a sarcastic smile appeared in the corner of his lips. “You know, actually,” you admitted, “I only grew up in a good neighborhood because my dad re-married rich. The weeks I was with my mom… she worked three jobs just to support me and a crummy apartment. I could never actually count on what the step-family would pay for, so sometimes I rode on boats with rich people, and sometimes I lived off canned pasta. It was weird.”</p><p>He looked at you appraisingly as he assimilated this new tidbit of information. “It isn’t easy, straddling two worlds.”</p><p>“Except you worked your ass off to break into one, and I ran away into the woods and got really into trees. Trees don’t judge you for not fitting in.”</p><p>“I’m sorry for judging you,” he whispered, his voice turning surprisingly tender. He lifted a hand and gently brought it to your cheek. You closed your eyes as it made contact, his palm warm against your skin, the pad of his thumb soft as it began stroking your cheek. You leaned forward, and he closed the remaining distance, his lips capturing yours, slow and sweet. It was chaste at first, and careful, but neither of you wanted to break it, and as it continued, his arms wrapped around the small of your back and your shoulder, drawing you in deeper as his heady scent enveloped you, the taste of coffee on his tongue as his lips parted.</p><p>
  <em>“Barba?”</em>
</p><p>Rafael practically jumped out of your arms as an inquisitive voice called his name, leaving you kissing the air. The voice belonged to a tall brunette woman pushing a toddler along in a stroller.</p><p>“Liv!” he practically shrieked in alarm, straightening himself.</p><p>You looked between them and the kid, and felt like such an idiot. “Oh my god, you <em>are</em> cheating!”</p><p>Liv gave you a look, and burst out laughing. “Sorry, sorry, nothing like that. I’m Sergeant Benson, SVU,” she extended you a firm handshake and explained, “I work with Barba on a lot of cases.” She turned back to Barba with an amused smirk. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date, I just couldn’t believe my eyes. Counselor, I didn’t realize you had a <em>personal</em> life.”</p><p>“It’s a new thing I’m trying. How’s Noah?”</p><p>“He’s perfect,” she smiled, cooing at the curly-haired child. “He loves the turtles, so we’re going down to the pond. Beautiful day for a nature walk.”</p><p>“She knows every tree,” Barba volunteered, puffing his chest out with the same cockiness he used to talk about himself, tipping his head at you. “Go ahead, test her.”</p><p>“I’ll take your word for it,” Liv said, bemused. She gave a polite nod and a reminder that she still owed Barba a coffee for some legal thing he had come through on (which only gave you a slight pang of jealousy), and then waved goodbye, walking down the path toward the water.</p><p>You sat in silence, recovering. Barba was obviously scandalized to have been caught in a compromising position by a colleague, the tips of his ears turning red. You were glad she wasn’t his wife, but didn’t love having to suddenly confront the fact that he had an entire social life you knew absolutely nothing about. It sort of ruined the intimacy of the moment, tearing the cardboard moon out of your sky too soon.</p><p>Barba broke the silence first with a low, drawn-out groan. He turned to you, his eyes soft but flashing with passion, taking your hands in his again. “If we start seeing each other… there is a good chance you will get to know Liv in some capacity.” He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, and on the exhale beseeched, “You cannot tell her how we met.”</p><p>The earnestness with which he implored you, holding both your hands, made you burst out laughing. He did a poor job hiding his smile as he watched you double over. When you finally contained yourself, you pecked an innocent kiss to his lips. “We can say we met at a bar. We don’t have to mention all the, uh...” Karaoke. Drunken shenanigans. Dubious consent. Whatever you call we-didn’t-have-penis-in-vagina-sex-but-you-fingered-me-until-we-orgasmed. He grimaced with you as you both recalled all of the things you would <em>not</em> be telling anyone about your meet-cute. Then you started remembering his fingers gliding in and out of you, his hungry lips marking up your skin, and a warm shiver ran down your back. He swallowed, seeing the lustful heaviness creep into your eyes and responding with his own.</p><p>He nearly kissed you again, wrapping you in a passionate embrace that would have hastened you to a bedroom, but you pulled back. He said “seeing each other.” You thought this was a fun fling with no strings attached, and the idea that he was already thinking about more made your heart sink with guilt. “I should tell you...”</p><p>You never got to finish your thought. Liv had only gotten fifty feet when her phone rang. She was yelling into it frantically, demanding answers. Barba’s phone buzzed with an incoming message. Liv stormed back up the path, waving to him. “There’s been a… development,” she said, censoring the case details in your presence. “They need me at the precinct. You’re probably going to want to come, too.”</p><p>“I believe I am already being summoned,” he replied, checking his phone.</p><p>“Good. I need to call the sitter. Please let everyone know I’m on my way.” She hurried off, and any hint of flirtation was gone from Barba’s eyes as he stood, fully back in cold lawyer mode as he made a phone call, then another to order a Lyft.</p><p>He was already walking with quick, purposeful steps toward the nearest exit of the park when he hung up his last call and turned back to you apologetically. You had been trailing behind him, unsure if he wanted you to follow, and didn’t miss that you were an afterthought. But his regret was sincere. And the truth was, you didn’t mind this serious version of Barba at all—the sober Barba who poured his soul into getting justice and would forget a date he had been enjoying the instant duty called—because you’d seen the drunk version who fell apart, sobbing in your arms when he let down the victims. He had a hard side and a soft side, and so far, there was nothing about him that you didn’t like.</p><p>Oh god, you had a crush on him.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I have to go. It’s an emergency,” he explained, brow furrowed heavily over yearning green eyes.</p><p>Oh god, this was only supposed to be a one-night stand. Maybe a few nights, but a <em>stand</em> nonetheless. How dare he look at you like that?</p><p>“It’s alright. It sounds important,” you half smiled.</p><p>“Can I call you later?” he asked. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he had none of the confident swagger usually in his voice. It was a small, hopeful sort of question that told you there were real emotional stakes to your answer.</p><p>Oh god, did he have a crush on you, too? Did you have a crush on each other? This was terrible!</p><p>Drawn in as if by a magnetic pull, you closed the short distance, threaded your hands between his arms and body, and clasped them together behind his back. His lips quirked as his confidence returned. His hands cupped the sides of your face, then his mouth crashed against yours, fired with all of the passion of desire realized and reciprocated, relief, and longing. It was the type of kiss that would have been drawn out and sensual if it hadn’t been condensed by necessity into a hurried goodbye. You were out of breath and overheated when he broke it, seconds later.</p><p>“I’ll be waiting,” you breathed. He gave a hungry growl and a sharp, promising stare that sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core before running to catch his ride.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Barba hated intelligent psychopaths. Even after they’d been put away, there was always some new appeal to fight, a new witness to come forward, some clever misdirection to cast their crimes into doubt. He’d been running around since noon working out deals with witnesses, obtaining warrants, and warning Liv’s detectives that they were being played. Now the sun was hanging low in the sky, and he realized he had never heard Carmen’s futile warning for him to go home already because his secretary didn’t work on weekends when he was pulling overtime. It was just him and his headache.</p><p>The time. What time was it?</p><p>He sat bolt upright in his leather office chair and groped for his phone. There was a notification from you from an hour ago that he vaguely recalled hearing buzz.</p><p>“How’s the emergency?”</p><p>He cursed and checked the time. It was getting late. Too late to make a reservation at any of the swankier restaurants he could take you. But he called you anyway, and was delighted when you answered.</p><p>“Hey. It’s Barba,” he said.</p><p>“I know,” said your amused voice on the other end of the line. “Your contact is in my phone, <em>Sexy Karaoke Lawyer</em>.”</p><p>He groaned in a way that was secretly a laugh. “Alright, <em>Lorax</em>. Are you free tonight? I’d like to take you to dinner. Actually, I thought I could make dinner. At my place?”</p><p>You gasped with mock scandalization. “Is this a booty call, Mr. Barba?”</p><p>He choked. “No. I just—” He stopped stammering when you started cackling like a grinning idiot, and his voice dropped low. “What if it is?”</p><p>The sudden shift in confidence caught you off guard, and he heard you swallow. “Then I’ll be there.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It had been ages since he’d had time to make his abuelita’s costillas de puerco recipe. Or rather, it had been ages since he’d made time, considering he hardly had the time to do it now. He rushed through the corner deli at lightning pace to pick up what he needed, and rushed through prep, knowing you’d be over in less than an hour.</p><p>He had no idea why he felt such a drive to impress you. Why he needed to see you again so soon when you’d spent hours by his side that morning. The entire short time he had known you had been strange, anxiety-inducing, and guilt-ridden, but instead of hating you, he found himself wanting more.</p><p>The truth he didn’t want to admit was, every interaction with you, no matter how awkward, had been underscored by a potent sexual chemistry, and at the moment, he was nothing but a horny teenage boy who wanted to get laid.</p><p>That was all. This was some mid-forties hormonal resurgence. Madre de dios, it was a midlife crisis.</p><p>Or maybe this was what happened when he stopped getting in his own way. He’d spent years nursing a broken heart, years that turned into decades guarding himself against anyone getting too close. He never thought he’d feel this way again for somebody new. It was too late in life to meet someone who would know him as well as his childhood friends from el barrio, and they were all married by now. But he’d opened himself up just an inch, just for a night, by mistake, and let someone see past the hard, cynical facade, and now he <em>wanted</em> you to know him. He wanted to know <em>you.</em> He wanted to see how this ended. Maybe this was a revelation.</p><p>His heart jumped in his chest at the buzz of the door intercom.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Hola, Rafael,” you greeted, and he grinned at the way you pronounced his name with the correct accent. “Oh my gosh, what smells amazing?”</p><p>He stood aside and nodded you in. The apartment was tiny, as most city apartments are, but tidy and well decorated. You were immediately drawn to the sturdy dining room table made of solid burl, and admired the natural chaotic pattern of the grain.</p><p>“It needs fifteen more minutes,” he said, observing with amusement how you completely ignored the good silver he’d broken out and started stroking the wood.</p><p>“What ever shall we do to pass the time?” you pouted innocently. Barba growled low in his throat, cupping a hand around your hip to draw you close, and you responded by pressing your hips flush against his, smiling lustily. Well, you <em>had</em> more or less agreed that dinner was a pretense for a booty call—no reason not to get right to it.</p><p>You hadn’t changed, but he was wearing a more casual wine-colored cashmere sweater, and you ran your hand up it, relishing the velvet softness under your palm as well as the shape of his chest. His lips met yours hot and searching, but didn’t stop there. They trailed over the side of your mouth, kissing down your jaw. He pressed wet, hungry kisses along your neck, and you moaned as his tongue lapped over the soft underside of your throat, his hands gliding over your hips. He pulled back by an inch. “Are you sure… you want this?” he murmured.</p><p>“God yes,” you moaned with your lips in his perfect salt-and-pepper hair, arousal raising your temperature as your body responded to his touch. “You haven’t been drinking this time?”</p><p>“Not a drop,” he replied huskily, somehow making it sound lewd as he resumed kissing the crook of your neck, and over your shoulder. You curled your fingers through his hair, and backed you up until your legs hit the edge of the table, and rested your weight against it, enjoying the feeling of being pinned as you angled your pelvis to grind against his growing erection.</p><p>“Oh, Rafa...” you moaned. “Can I call you Rafa?” you asked, not sure if the nickname was too personal. With the emotional baggage of your first night together, you hadn’t been sure if being on a first-name basis was respectful enough.</p><p>“You can call me anything you want,” he purred, his teeth gently pinching your shoulder.</p><p>You made a deep, chesty noise, sinfully considering that. “Don’t give me such broad permission, or you might regret it… papi.”</p><p>He groaned, and you felt his cock kicking against your cunt. Bunching up your skirt over your hips, you rocked your hips against him, panting just from feeling the strength of his arousal through his clothes. “Yes,” he hissed softly, holding you firmly against him as he worked his clothed erection against your panties, growing more excited with every mewl and shudder it drew from your lips. “That night was… moronic… but I remember the way I felt… how much I wanted you.” He turned his head and sucked a light bruise into your neck. “Do you still feel that way?”</p><p>You dipped your head to coax him back to your mouth, his pink lips wet with saliva as your tongue tasted them. “I wanted you to fuck me so bad,” you groaned, jerking your hips for emphasis on the word fuck. “But your fingers are very skilled… and your mouth...” You kissed him again, and felt his hand reach between your legs to slide your panties off.</p><p>His fingers paused halfway down the elastic. “Is this moving too fast?” he panted, suddenly trying to be reasonable. The kind of thing you would worry about if you were building a long-term relationship.</p><p>“Shh,” you hushed him gently. “I don’t want to think about too fast or too slow, or how different our lives are, or what’s going to happen after tonight. We’re just two strangers having fun. Can’t it just be that?”</p><p>He kissed you so softly, then. So tenderly that he could only have been subliminally trying to convince you of something more. His heart drummed with possessive affection; he already knew he wanted more than just tonight. At least the primitive, reckless part of him that didn’t overthink and over-plan every decision did. The rational part of him and the part that would say anything to please you came to an accord as he nodded, lips moving against your skin, “It can be.”</p><p>You grabbed his wrist and helped him slip your underwear the rest of the way off, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. His fingers didn’t immediately plunge themselves into your drenched folds, and his hips didn’t immediately return to grind against your wetness. His intelligent, cocky green eyes gave you a probing stare.</p><p>“Y qué quieres hacer esta noche?” he purred, low and seductive, giving you a choice.</p><p>“Oh, <em>papi</em>, me encanta cuándo hablas español. I want you to do anything you want to me. Anything,” you moaned, fairly certain that, with one or two exceptions, you really meant it. This man turned you on in ways you’d never experienced. There was nothing you wouldn’t try if he wanted it, and you knew he’d stop the second you asked, which made you feel bolder.</p><p>He chuckled. “Don’t give me such broad permission, dulce naturalista.”</p><p>The promise of mischief in his voice made you shiver, your cunt dripping. “Anything, papi. I just… want to know that you want me.”</p><p>He hummed. “This dress, this flimsy thing,” he hooked his index fingers through the narrow shoulder straps and tugged. “Did you know I’ve been staring at it all day, thinking about doing this?” He pulled the front down, just by a few inches, and freed your nipples. He dipped his head, and you gasped as he took one in his mouth.</p><p>“Oh god, it feels so good,” you whined as he began to suck, rolling the other between his thumb and forefinger. It was like he had a direct connection to your clit. He wasn’t even touching you there, but a hot pressure began to build between your legs as he devoured your sensitive nipples.</p><p>Then he suddenly released, your hard peak popping out of his mouth with a wet sound, and you whined for him not to stop. “Tu no dominas el español, verdad?” he asked.</p><p>“Qué?” you blurted, confused, but answering his question by not understanding it.</p><p>“I didn’t think so,” he said, a devilish look in his eyes. “You need practice, so I’ve decided I’ll only give you what you want if you say it in Spanish.”</p><p>“Pero… Qué pasa si… yo no sé… how to say it in Spanish?” You did want to learn more dirty talk, but this game didn’t seem fair. You wanted him to keep sucking your tits.</p><p>“You said I could do anything I wanted...” he reminded you, bringing his hand back to one of your breasts and kneading it tormentingly slowly. “Si no lo sabes, intenta. Practica, practica, practica.”</p><p>You wondered if this was some sort of dominance thing, or if he just liked watching you struggle with his native language. It was a bit exciting, though, you had to admit. Your pulse was racing with a mixture of arousal and embarassment, because you genuinely had no idea how to say what you wanted. “Mis… pechos? Tu lengua. Por favor.” you pointed from his mouth to your breasts.</p><p>“<em>Por favor, chupa mis pezones</em>,” he corrected. “Repite.” You repeated it, and before you’d finished the last syllable, he replied, “Con gusto,” and began stimulating your nipples to the point of torture with his nimble lawyer’s tongue.</p><p>“Oh god,” you whimpered, your voice high and pleading, “It feels so good.” You bucked your hips into his and curled your fingers around the back of his head trying to force him to keep going, but he pulled back.</p><p>“En español,” he chided.</p><p>“En serio?!” you complained, but he simply watched you with his eyebrows quirked, waiting. “Me siento bien?” you tried. He smiled approvingly and lowered his sultry mouth to your skin again, flicking your hardened peak while pinching it between his lips. This time he pushed his hips back against yours so you could feel the heat of his erection on your pussy, and it sent new waves of electricity coursing through your body, which was already heaving just with the attention to your breasts. “Por favor, más... Oh god, yes,” you whimpered.</p><p>“Qué sabor muy rica, tu piel,” he murmured, muffled in your skin. “You taste delicious.” The vibrations from his speech tore a choked whimper from your lips, and you bucked your hips against his cock.</p><p>You bit down on your lower lip, fighting your rising climax even as you lifted one leg, wrapping it over his hip, to hasten it. “I’m gonna—oh god, you’re going to make me come just from this!”</p><p>“Voy a venir,” he coached you in a firm, teacher-like voice that nearly made you double over with arousal. “O puedes decir, ‘Me vas a poner a venir.’”</p><p>“M-me pon… ah!” he lightly nipped at your sensitive peak, turning the rest of what you were trying to say into helpless babble. “Please, please fuck me… oh god.” Before he could correct you, you remembered what he’d taught you in the bar right before begging you to leave with him so he could fuck your brains out. “Dámelo duro, papi.”</p><p>His whole body shuddered as he took in a shaking breath, but sober Barba never lost control until he decided to surrender it. As much as he wanted to fuck you, he was having too much fun teasing you. “You could also say, ‘Quiero que me coges,’” he explained academically, and you growled with frustration, writhing under him, your cunt seeking purchase against his cock. “If you’re going to speak a language, you’ve got to practice it,” he said, his voice far too calm and even for the circumstance, even with its wicked undertone.</p><p>“Dámelo! Por favor! Dáme tu pinga!” you begged frantically, rapid-firing off every way to ask for his cock that you could think of. You reached between your bodies and grasped his engorged sex through his tightened pants and stroked him hard from balls to tip. Your efforts were rewarded with an involuntary whine, Barba’s hips jerking forward.</p><p>“Me rindo,” he whimpered in surrender. His breath was ragged and he looked ready to fall apart. You purred with victory, but as you slowed the furious pace of your stroking, he recovered enough of his senses to smirk through his lust. “Pero primero, quiero saborearte.” His voice was thick, and his eyes dark as a tropical storm on a Caribbean island. He lifted the leg you’d wrapped around him up onto the table, and knelt beneath you. “Con tu permiso?”</p><p>You nodded, gasping sharply even before his tongue made contact with your soaked pussy just from the obscene expression on his face as he opened his mouth and extended the point of his tongue as he slowly leaned toward you. Your hands braced behind you on the table for support. Then you cried out loud when that tongue did hit you, slightly cold from the air, but quickly warming to match you as his mouth closed over your whole cunt. “Ah, que rica,” he sighed into your pussy, lapping at your slippery arousal with broad, languid strokes of his tongue, unhurried, as if he were aiming for no particular goal but to enjoy your flavor. “So wet for papi. Qué buena estudiante eres. Good students should be rewarded.”</p><p>He finally stood back up to his full height in front of you and removed his pants and underwear, letting them fall around his ankles, and his cock sprang free. You gaped down at it in awe. “Oh god, look at that cock,” you practically drooled. You automatically reached down and started stroking it, babbling on about what a thick, beautiful cock it was. He was too lost in the touch of your fingers wrapped around his shaft to even complain that it wasn’t Spanish.</p><p>“Ah, condoms!” he interjected before pushing himself inside you like every muscle in his body was screaming to do. “I’ve got some in the bedroom.”</p><p>You chewed your lip, not sure if this would come off the wrong way since he wanted to be responsible, but you slowly said, “We don’t need to use one if you don’t want. I’m on the pill, and I don’t have any STDs.”</p><p>His stormy eyes pierced into you, clearly tempted, but he couldn’t help remarking cynically, “If you give me a disease, I swear...”</p><p>“I’m afraid I don’t have my medical records on me, so I understand if you don’t want to take my word for it. I don’t know why I’m blindly trusting you.” That was a lie. Everything about Rafael Barba screamed precision, caution, and consent, and even after such a short time knowing him, you were absolutely certain he would never put you at risk. In fact, there was no way he’d ever have unprotected sex with a stranger.</p><p>Except his very next words were, “Fuck it,” and he hooked his arm under your elevated leg, and began rubbing his thick cock through your folds, coating it with your slick arousal. “You are absolutely sure you want this?” he looked at you with soft, understanding eyes, checking for any doubts.</p><p>You let out a needy whine, rolling your hips to rub your pussy against the tip of his fat cock. “Te quiero,” you whimpered, intending to say you wanted it, but his cheeks reddened and his heart flipped as you said something better translated as <em>I love you</em>.</p><p>You wouldn’t realize your mistake until much later, thinking back on it, or understand why his face was suddenly frozen between tenderness and panic, and then dawning realization, relief, and a small, barely noticeable wince of disappointment.</p><p>He entered you slowly, letting you feel every inch of stretch from his cock. Like the rest of his build, it was not the longest you had ever seen, but it was impressively girthy, and each blissful inch he worked you open brought the slightest fraying edge of pain. He knew his size could be a challenge, and was practiced at preparing, and patience. You were already so dripping wet, you didn’t need extra lube, though he had it on standby, and watched you carefully, pausing to let you rest every time he advanced. As he waited, feeling your walls relax to accept him, he ducked his head to your breasts, savoring the helpless squeals you made when he gave attention to what he learned was one of your most sensitive erogenous zones. Every time he flicked his tongue over your nipple or sucked its hardened peak into his mouth, your cunt twitched around him and your back arched to take more of him. It worked so well, he never stopped teasing your breasts, and your silent cries of, “Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god!” grew in intensity until you were screaming with pleasure, fist clenched in his hair as you held him to your chest, and his balls were pressed tight against your ass.</p><p>Panting hard and moaning into your breasts, he began to thrust, slowly at first, but you wrapped your legs around his back and used them as leverage to buck your hips into him, pushing back into each of his thrusts, deepening them and coaxing him to increase his pace. As you angled your hips, he began hitting a deep point inside that made your legs turn to jelly. “Dámelo bien duro,” you tried to say, but it mostly came out as unintelligible gasps and whimpers. His mouth never left your tits and you loved the angle it gave you, being able to watch his face, strained with concentration and clouded with lust, and his tongue working diligently to bring you to a climax that took you off guard with how suddenly it crashed over you. You couldn’t say there was no buildup to it, because you had been in throes since he first pulled down your dress, but he had barely begun to thrust when the heat coiling in your lower back suddenly tightened and snapped, shooting sparks behind your eyelids. “Ah—Rafa!” you wailed, squeezing your fingers in his hair.</p><p>He gasped, releasing the globe of your breast from his mouth at the wracking of your body in his arms. Your pussy convulsed, clenching tightly around his cock, coating it in your sweet release, almost too tight for him to thrust through. One more jerk of his hips through your rippling, fluttering muscles and he let out a string of swears, and you felt his abdominal muscles tense up against your belly. He pulled back and thrust into you once more, balls swinging against your ass, and his hot seed flooded you. He panted, trembling, still trying to hold onto you, though halfway sitting on a dining table without knocking off any of the plates was not the most ideal location for post-coital recovery cuddling. He grabbed a few paper napkins from behind you to catch the drippings as he pulled out.</p><p>It was over too fast, a testament to how long it had been for him. Both of you, really. But you weren’t disappointed. He made you come almost entirely with that silver tongue of his, and you were still shaking too much to take your weight off the table and put it on your legs.</p><p>The timer on the oven rang shrilly, announcing dinner was done.</p><p>“After dinner,” he promised, pulling his pants back on. “Quiero más de tu cuerpo.”</p><p>You were satisfied, but not yet sated, and looked forward to round two.</p>
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